


If The Sky Comes Falling Down

by Lapin



Series: What If I'm Far From Home? [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: Back alley of a bar ain't a great place to be, but it's not the first time Goody's found himself in one and it probably won't be the last. It's better than inside the bar, least for right now, both for him and for everyone in there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pariahsdream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahsdream/gifts).



> This is Pariah's damn fault.
> 
> And then she drew me lots of pretty art and I love her. [ Goody and Billy on the porch. ](https://pariah-arts.tumblr.com/post/177315465554/finished-version-that-took-me-far-too-long-mostly) She's too good to me.

Back alley of a bar ain't a great place to be, but it's not the first time Goody's found himself in one and it probably won't be the last. It's better than inside the bar, least for right now, both for him and for everyone in there. 

He slumps against the bricks. Looks up, tries to see if there's anything to see. There's too much light though. Sky is just one big blur of dark blue in the stripe he can get a glimpse of. 

Fuck, why did people always have to make a fuss about shit that wasn't any of their damn business? All Goody wanted was a goddamned drink, and he'd gotten himself good and tucked up in the corner to do it. He wasn't looking to get recognized, get dragged up and out into all those damn people, everyone trying to talk to him, congratulate him, _“thank you for your service”_ -

God damn it, if Goody never had to hear that again for the rest of his life, he might be able to die a little less miserable. 

Fucking Elliot. Goody hadn't even heard he was back in town, hadn't wanted to know. Elliot had such a big fucking mouth and that fucking idiot had never been able to pick up a fucking hint, even back in the day. Couldn't see when a man wanted to be left alone.

It's a lighter clicking that almost has him fly out of his skin. 

He's lucky that's all it does. Never know what could set him off, not anymore. 

Stranger is a little further down, opposite from Goody. He's got his cigarette lit now, the light of it not enough Goody can get a good look at him just yet. He's watching Goody though. Goody knows what being watched feels like, when someone's watching with intent. Doesn't feel dangerous, not this time, but it's definitely there. 

Goody hitches his chin at the man. “Willing to loan me one of those?” He'd meant to quit for good this time. Hadn't smoked since yesterday and hadn't bought a new pack this morning at the bodega. He'd really meant it this time, at least. That had to count for something. 

“Loan?” The man tilts his head. “Are you planning on giving it back?” Got an accent. Not much, but a little bit of one. 

Got a bit of a mouth, too.

“Fine,” Goody concedes. “Would you be so kind as to _give_ me one of those?” If he says no, Goody reasons that's God telling him to stop smoking. And even if it is, there's a bodega two blocks down. 

Don't matter, because the stranger pulls out a carton, and offers it to Goody. 

“Got a light?” he asks, after a second, when the lighter doesn't appear. 

Stranger comes closer, close enough Goody can finally get a good look at him. He lights Goody's cigarette for him, too close for a stranger, and he stays close, flopping against the wall beside Goody. He's Asian, of some sort, with what looks like real long hair piled up on his head. Goody can't get a read on how old he is. Looks young, but the way he's holding himself and the way he looks at Goody makes Goody guess them around the same age. 

“Much obliged,” Goodnight says, tipping his head. “Goodnight Robicheaux.”

He doesn't get a name back. He gets a narrow-eyed look, and, “I understand the first word. But I don't speak any French.” 

Ain't the first time this has happened. Goody is used to it by now, even if it used to piss him off, back when he was eighteen and freshly joined up. “It's my name. My name is Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“Someone actually named you Goodnight.” It's not really a question. “And Americans think they can make fun of my name.” He smirks though, and offers, “You can call me Billy.”

“That your actual name?”

“I don't like listening to how you Americans butcher it. So you can call me Billy.” Goodnight wants to argue on principle, but he can't even make it through a Chinese takeout menu without feeling like an idiot, and that's probably the point. Besides, he'd listened to enough people calling out _“Rob-be-chuck?”_ to empathize. “Is your name really Goodnight?”

“It's my middle name,” Goody says. “And the one I like, thank you kindly.” 

“Not the one they were calling you when they were talking about what a big war hero you are?”

Son of a _bitch_. “Heard all that then?” 

“Hard not to, when everyone is trying to buy you a drink.” He's got a roll of bills between two fingers now. 

“Reckon that money was supposed to be buying me those drinks.”

Billy raises his eyebrows. “So they probably should have given it to the fucking bartender. I'm not the fucking bartender.” He smiles, and god damn, if Goodnight doesn't have to laugh at that. It's the best he's felt all night, all fucking _week_ , laughing at this man's face. “Could use some of it to buy you a drink, if you want.”

That's got a hint to it. Got a damn welcome hint, even if that kind of thing hasn't been welcome in a long time. “You could,” he says, answering the question. 

Billy smiles. It ain't all that nice of a smile, but Goody gets the idea Billy ain't all that nice, when it comes down to it. That's all right. Goody don't feel all that nice these days. “Cheaper to drink what I already have at my place.”

“Can't find any fault in that logic, myself.”

It's an old building, staircases open to the air. Billy lives at the top, on the third floor, in a one bedroom apartment that ain't got one piece of matching furniture and a dart board on the wall over the TV. Coffee table has rings and an ash-tray half-full. 

Bedroom's got a bed with blue sheets, and a dark blanket. That ends up on the floor at some point. 

Billy reaches over the side and pulls it back up while Goody is still on his back, trying to get his breath back. He needs a cigarette, but he doesn't know where his clothes are. Neither of them had been all that particular about where things were falling.

Billy's already got one lit though, and passing it to Goody, getting another one out to keep for himself. 

“You're a real gentleman, then, ain't you?” Goody's just teasing, but he likes the look he gets for it. 

Likes the way Billy keeps looking at him, smirking, before he exhales smoke. He likes that look a whole lot. Likes it enough he gets himself up once his legs stop shaking and climbs into Billy's lap. His cigarette is only half-done, but he stubs it out in the ashtray on the side table anyway. Billy offers Goody a hit off of his, before he puts it out too. Once he's got his hands free, he slides them up Goody's back, and damn, but it's been too long since there were hands on him that he wanted there. 

“So what's this mean?” Billy asks, nosing over the tattoo on Goody's chest. 

“Unit I belonged to, when I was in the Army.”

“The 75th.” That ain't a question. Goody tries to pull back so he can look at Billy's face, but Billy don't let him, keeping a grip on the back of his neck so he can keep mouthing at Goody's collarbone. 

“Why do I get the feeling you already know what that means about me?” 

Billy makes a noise that might be a laugh, but it's got too much bite to it. “Because you didn't get to be an Army Ranger by being stupid.” He shrugs. “It's not important. Another place, another name. Another life.” He hitches his chin at his own shoulder. Most of Billy's right arm is covered in a tattoo, dark black and red and twisting. 

Goody taps his fingers on it, finally getting Billy to look at him. “And what might that be covering up?” 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” He don't give Goody much chance to follow up on it, kissing him again.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep in Billy's bed, but he does. He doesn't wake up shaking at least, doesn't embarrass himself, and he offers up a prayer of thanks for that. Billy is gone, but Goody can hear water running; shower, then. He's not feeling too spry himself, so he stays in the bed, rolling over away from the sun coming through the window and hoping Billy ain't eager for him to leave just yet. 

Hell, he's hoping he gets a number out of this, at least. 

He can't fall back asleep, never could, and the way he's lying down is starting to pull at the scarring on his side something bad, so he sits up. He can see his clothes, piled up on top of the dresser. Must have been Billy, because Goody remembers Billy getting that shirt off when they were still in the living room. 

Water turns off. The apartment is small enough Goody can hear Billy moving around, so he's not startled when Billy appears in the doorway, all his hair down while he dries the ends. “Surprised you're awake.” 

“You ain't _that_ good.” That might be an outright lie, but Goody's got his pride. 

“My neighbors might disagree.” Damn, but he says it so dry that Goody can't help but laugh. “Shower is open.” 

“Ain't got nothing to change into.” It's probably better to go home and shower. He don't really want to leave, when it comes down to it, but there ain't much point in dragging it out. He's got to go back to that damn house sooner or later. 

Billy pulls open a drawer, and tosses a pair of sweatpants at him. Goody catches them, just barely, gives Billy a look. “What?” he asks, hanging from the doorway. “You got somewhere else to be?” 

“Can't say that I do.” 

They spend most of the morning sitting out on the balcony, drinking coffee and smoking. Billy's got a bench seat they can both fit on if they're half on top of one another. Goody ends up between Billy's legs, head on Billy's chest and listening to him breathe for the most part. Billy don't ask a lot of questions, not really, not about anything that gets at Goody in a way he doesn't like. 

“You only been here five years?” Goody asks, when Billy tells him when he left Korea. “How's your English this damn good? I'd still be walking around like an idiot there.”

Billy scoffs and leans down to bite at Goody's ear. “Lazy Americans. I've been in English classes since I was eight.” That ain't the whole story, so Goody pats at Billy's arm, over the ink. “You have something to say?”

“No, but I think you're leaving out some parts of that story, friend.” 

Billy takes another hit off his cigarette. “Classified.” 

The way he says it gets a good laugh out of Goody. He stretches his legs out, hanging one over the other arm of the bench. “Might be wrong, but reckon I have the clearance.” Billy's got his hair back up, but some of it's getting out, tickling Goody's ear. He can smell it too. “What brought you here?” 

“Didn't want to be in Korea anymore. I have some family here. Seemed as good a choice as any.”

“My story ain't that different. Got my _honorable discharge_. Couldn't think of anywhere else to go. Wish I could have.” Billy drags his knuckles down Goody's jaw, and Goody turns into it, kissing his fingers. “Mama likes having a decorated war hero in the house. Makes me feel like some racehorse that won the Kentucky Derby.” 

“Hm. And I bet she finds all sorts of mares to stud you with.”

Damn, but he can't remember the last time he could laugh this easy. “Seems like every damn Sunday, she's got another nice girl from a good old family sitting in our pew, coming to lunch.” And every Sunday, he still don't feel a damn thing when he looks at them.

“Is that the only way you like to make a woman come?” 

Goody about falls off the bench, but Billy's all muscle, and he keeps Goody close while he gets himself under control. He don't mind, because Billy feels good, feels better than anything Goody's had in so damn long. After he finally stops fucking laughing, he lets himself nuzzle into Billy's chest. He hadn't put a shirt on, not that Goody's complaining. “You're a mean son of a bitch, ain't you?”

“People do say that about me.” 

“It's alright, I like it.”

Goody keeps meaning to get himself up and dressed in yesterday's clothes and go back to his family's house, where his mother is probably starting to seethe, glaring at his empty spot at the table for breakfast, then as the day goes by, lunch. Goody and Billy spend lunch at a restaurant Billy's aunt runs. They drink soju that Goody is damn sure Billy's aunt doesn't have the license to serve, and Goody is still wearing Billy's sweatpants, and now he's wearing one of Billy's shirts, a tee that hangs too big with some Korean writing on the front. 

He keeps meaning to leave but the whole day is so damn easy, so much easier than any day he's spent in his family's big damn house on the genteel side of Baton Rouge. Billy's apartment is small and smells like cigarettes, and it feels like every barrack and tent Goodnight spent fourteen good years in. And Billy is here, and Billy keeps dropping his arm over Goody and letting Goody climb into his lap and kiss him whenever Goody feels like. 

The sex is random, throughout the day. Goody gets down on his knees for Billy sometime before lunch, and Billy jerks Goodnight off nice and slow on the couch, while the TV drones in the background, after lunch, when they're both languid and Goody is half-asleep against Billy. 

It's sunset and Goody doesn't think he's worn out his welcome, but he can't keep wearing Billy's clothes. Not that he's wearing any clothes right now. No, right now he's naked in Billy's bed, and Billy's just fucked Goody too damn good for Goody to think about anything except falling asleep sometime soon. He's lying on his stomach in Billy's bed, naked in the late summer heat, and Billy's got his hair tied up, but again, some of it is loose, and it's cool on Goody's back while Billy works a mark into the back of Goody's neck. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you're making it damn hard for a man to go home,” Goody says. 

“I have to go to work in an hour, if that helps.” He's told Goody he's a regular bouncer for a bar around the corner. Not the one he'd picked Goody up from. Someplace rougher. He was just filling in last night. “Wouldn't say no to you still in my bed when I get back.”

Goody rolls over, back into Billy. “You ever stop?” 

“Do you want me to?” He drags his hand over Goody's chest, pinching his nipple along the way. He doesn't follow through though, just kissing Goody on the shoulder before he climbs out of the bed and starts grabbing clothes out of the dresser. “Shower?” 

“Ain't no way in hell we'd both fit, darling.” He still wanders in during Billy's, sitting on the linoleum and smoking. Billy saves him some hot water. He's trimming his beard and mustache when Goody gets out, just finishing up. “My mama's going to have my head when I get back.” Billy pats his face with aftershave, meeting Goody's eyes in the mirror. “Off chance I do live through this, you want to see me again?” 

“Big bad war hero is scared of his _mommy_?” he teases, turning around. 

Goody gets his fingers in Billy's belt loops, hopeful when Billy lets him come close. “You ever meet my mama, you ain't going to have to ask me that again.” 

“Let me meet you a few more times,” Billy says, mouth brushing Goody's, “before I face that beast.”

He _does_ want to see Goody again, and damn, that shouldn't do what it does to Goody. Feels like something in his chest has finally loosened up for the first time since Afghanistan, since Iraq. Billy's kissing him real easy now too, like they're already used to each other. 

Course, it tightens back up real bad when he walks in the kitchen door of the big house, trying to avoid seeing his mother first thing, and the cook and Rebecca, the maid, give first him a look, then each other. 

“How pissed off is she?” he asks. 

Rebecca makes that face, and damn, he might be a grown man now, but that face still scares him a bit. “Boy, I know you did not learn that kind of language from me,” she scolds. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry, ma'am.” 

“And where in God's name have you been?” She has her finger in his face, and he's a foot taller than her now, but he still looks down at his feet. “I have been worried sick over you! I nearly called the police myself!”

That doesn't feel all that fair. “I can go out, if I want.”

The finger gets further in his face, telling him just what Rebecca thinks about _fair_. “Not without telling someone where you'll be. I am too old to go through this with you again, James Émile Goodnight Robicheaux. You took years off my life, all your nonsense when you were sixteen, climbing out your window and taking off for days. I ain't got any more of them to spare worrying about whether or not your fool head is dead in a ditch!” 

Using his full Christian name is not a good sign when it comes to Rebecca. Either means she's going to cry or smack him upside said fool head.

Goody's too damn tired. “I am not sixteen anymore. I went out, ended up staying with a friend.” 

That gets the finger out of his face, but she's got the look of a bloodhound that's caught the scent, which ain't much better. She crosses her arms over her chest, and the cook, damn, what is her name? She's new. Annette? Well, either way, she's got the look of someone real interested in finding somewhere else to be. 

“Is he nice? This friend?” 

He doesn't think Rebecca would find Billy all that nice, or even all that respectable. Rebecca's got opinions on appearances, and Billy's hair alone would put her off. That's if she didn't get a look at the tattoo first. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“Don't lie to me, boy. You couldn't do it when you were five, and you haven't gotten any better at it.”

“Sorry, ma'am.” 

He must be looking rougher than he thinks, because she finally uncrosses her arms and tries to smarten him up, folding his collar down a little more and fixing his sleeves. “You've missed supper, but your mama's got company in the parlor. They're having drinks. Get yourself dressed in something ironed and make an appearance. Be on your best behavior.” She pauses, then looks up at him with a very _knowing_ look. “And keep that hickey covered up.” 

Don't matter he's thirty-three and damn too old to be embarrassed over this sort of thing, he's red and he knows it. She shoos him off, taking pity on him, and he uses the servants' staircase to get upstairs without being seen. 

His bedroom feels ten times worse than it did yesterday morning. 

He never liked it much as a kid, never felt like this space was his. It hasn't changed in a hundred years. Other kids had posters and secondhand furniture. Goody's got a teak wardrobe with gold trim and a genuine Matisse in his. 

He's never even liked the damn painting.

No, the first time Goody ever felt like he really had a room was his first barracks room. He bunked with two other guys, and he'd gotten lucky enough to get the bottom of the one bunk bed. He gotten himself some blackout curtains to hang around the frame, and the guy on the top had been a blessedly quiet soul who never talked unless he had to. Between the three of them, they'd hung up band posters, dumb ones showing how to make drinks, and cluttered the place up with DVDs and video games and all sorts of tacky fucking knick-knacks Goody would never have dreamed of bringing into this damn house. By the time they all got broken up, Goody didn't have one secret about himself he didn't think he could be open about in his own damn room.

Hell, even before Don't Ask, Don't Tell got repealed, and he'd been stationed in Germany, it had been an in-joke to get him the nude calendars of the rugby teams when the other guys were getting their own. He'd pinned them up too, right beside the ones of the cheerleaders his bunkmates got for themselves. 

Most of the ladies had appreciated him for it, when they were all in the red zone. 

He'd take that damn insulated tent with three feet of snow on the outside, with too many bodies and piles of gear. He'd take it back in a heartbeat, Sanchez and Riesz, on either side of him, both Brooklyn-born boys that thought Goody's accent was hilarious. It was always Sanchez bitching at Riesz in Spanish, Riesz bitching back in Yiddish, and Goody taking bets on when Sanchez would finally snap and kick the shit out of Crawford if he had made one more damn joke about Mexicans.

_“Fucking white boys,” Sanchez spit. “Should shoot him myself.”_

_“I am, in fact, a white boy too, Sanchez,” Goody said._

_“Nah, you're like Riesz. You don't count.”_

_“I ain't Jewish.”_

_“You're gay, though. Crawford's got plenty of shit to say about you too, you know.” Sanchez punched Goody in the arm. “No worries, brother, the next time he's got something to say, he'll be eating his own damn teeth.”_

_Goody was half-asleep, with his hat over his eyes. “Thank you kindly. Rest assured, next time he has something to say about Mexicans, I will do the same.” He pushed his cap back. “Even though you're a Puerto Rican.”_

_Riesz had all but fallen off his cot, he'd been laughing so damn hard, but Sanchez had thrown himself down into Goody's cot, knocked Goody off, laughing, “See, that's why you get a pass, white boy!”_

He can't ever be back there, but he'd like to be back in Billy's apartment, where he could smoke inside and drink a beer out of the bottle. Walk around in Billy's sweatpants and tee shirt.

Billy _wants_ to see him again. He'll get to be back there soon enough.

For now, he puts on clean clothes, and a tie, so he can keep his top button done up. 

His mother is sitting in the parlor with a man her own age and two ladies that must be his daughters. If one of them is past twenty-one, Goody really will quit smoking. They're both pretty girls and they thank him for his service, in that genteel way girls like them are supposed to, but he catches a very familiar look the younger one gives the older one. They've worked him out real quick.

They're polite enough though, and talking to them means he doesn't have to face his mother just yet. 

“Your mother tells us you're quite the war hero,” the older girl, Olivia, says. 

Goody tries to smile. “She does like to tell people that, yes.”

The other girl, Eileen, asks, “Well, are you?” 

That ain't a question he wants to answer. He's never known how to answer that sort of question, not with people who don't know a damn thing about that place, that situation. Don't know anything about what he did, or why he did it. 

His hands are shaking.

Carefully, he clasps them together. He leaves this room, his mother really will kill him. “They did send me home with some trinkets for the uniform.”

Eileen raises her eyebrows at her sister, and Olivia says, “Bet you look mighty fine in that uniform.”

“Probably get all the pretty boys' numbers,” Eileen adds, more quietly, and they both smile at him.

It relaxes him, just enough he can hold up both hands, and admit, “I wouldn't say I get any more than my fair share, when it comes down to it.” 

Billy had put his number into Goody's phone before he left for work. Goody's wouldn't call him pretty, not really, but there's no pretending Billy ain't one of the finest looking men Goody's ever managed to get the attention of. 

The ladies leave with their father around eight, and then it's just him and his mother. The door isn't hardly shut behind them, before she turns on him. In her heels, she's the same height as him, so there's no looking away, not like with Rebecca.

“Went out for a drink,” he says, before she can start in on him. “Met up with some old friends, had a few too many, so I stayed over. It ain't nothing to fuss over.” 

She's not backing down. His mother isn't Rebecca. Rebecca cleaned his skinned knees, took away his Gameboy when he tracked in mud, and smacked the gardener over the head for teaching him how to swear in French. 

His mother had never accepted him in her company without clean clothes and combed hair, and nothing less than perfect manners. 

“I do not pretend to understand just what was considered acceptable behavior in the Army, James, and to be frank, I do not much care. What I do care about is what is acceptable behavior in my house, and disappearing without a word, leaving me to explain you away again, is _not acceptable_. You are too old to be embarrassing this family in such a way. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He sits in that damn bedroom for a good hour after, sits on the edge of the bed and tries not to fall apart. He manages just that, but he's already shoving clothes into his rucksack, clothes and his own damn razor and toothbrush, and he's quiet as a cat down the servants' staircase.

It's five in the damn morning, and the sun still ain't up. 

Goody is sitting on the steps right outside of Billy's door when Billy strolls up.

“It's not like I locked the door,” he says to Goody.


	2. Chapter 2

Billy comes home to breakfast. 

It's around five in the morning, but Goody's adjusted to Billy's schedule. He's been hanging around the apartment for around two weeks now, if Billy's counting, but he's not. He puts a roll of money down on the kitchen counter, beside the coffee pot, then goes around to the kitchen table. Where it came from, he has no idea, and doesn't really care either. Goody seems to like it.

“Kill anyone?” Goody asks, after Billy's leaned down and kissed him. 

“Not that I know of.” He doesn't usually bother with the men he removes from the bar after they've worn out their welcome. One of them had still been lying on the sidewalk when Billy walked home, but Billy had assumed he was still breathing and kept on. He's gotten used to food and coffee waiting for him at the apartment, and he'd been more interested in that, and getting back to Goody. “Have you slept?”

Goody doesn't always sleep when Billy is at work. Sometimes he comes down to the bar with Billy, and sits and waits for him to be done for the night. Billy likes it when he does that. He talks to Billy, keeps him entertained, and he likes to watch when Billy gets to actually do something.

“Little bit after you left. Went for a walk, did some cleaning.”

Billy's never owned enough to be worried about the state of the apartment. But it keeps Goody busy and somehow or another, the apartment is gaining more things. Goody apparently likes having things. Billy fails to see the point in owning the things in question, but they're not bothering him. 

“You smell like whiskey, darling.” 

“I didn't know you minded,” Billy replies, sitting down. “Someone threw their drink on me.”

Goody laughs. “How'd he end his evening?” 

“I think I broke his collarbone,” Billy guesses out loud. He's usually more sure of the damage he does, but the man had friends, and even Billy can't concentrate completely when it's five against one and he's not allowed to kill anyone. “It was easier when I was in uniform. No one minded if I stabbed the idiots.”

“I wouldn't mind seeing you in that uniform.” 

Breakfast will keep. “Rather see you in nothing.” 

Whatever tension he hadn't gotten out beating on idiots bleeds out of him as Goody rides him, the morning sun just starting to light up the dark bedroom. Goody starts pulling his hair when he's close, a tell Billy likes. It's an unspoken cue to be rougher with Goody, Goody wrapping his arms around Billy's shoulders, loud enough Billy's neighbors definitely hate him if they haven't learned to already. 

“Come on, Goody,” he encourages, getting a hand around him. 

“Damn it, darling,” another tell, and then Goody's coming all over both their chests. He goes soft after, holding on to Billy while Billy keeps going, making soft sounds into Billy's shoulder, his breath wet and hot. “Please, baby,” he says, “please.”

“Please, what?” Billy's close, but he likes teasing Goody like this, dragging it out. “What do you want, Goody?”

Goody fists Billy's hair, kisses him hard, and _fuck_ , he has worked Billy out quick hasn't he?

They share a cigarette after, both of them too worn out to manage a whole one on their own. Besides, Goody's finally falling asleep, and Billy can't think of a reason not to sleep beside him, Goody pushing back against him until Billy gets the hint and wraps an arm around him. 

He's only asleep for a few hours, maybe, when he wakes up, fully alert. Someone is in the apartment. He's already got his jeans back on, belt buckled, opening the nightstand drawer and pulling out a knife before reason kicks in over instinct.

He's in Baton Rouge. No one here is hunting him down.

He still sticks a switchblade in his belt. Maybe someone has been stupid enough to break in, and he'll get to use it.

Vasquez is eating his breakfast. Red is sitting on the bar, drinking his coffee. 

“Morning.” Vasquez has his mouth full. Billy's more annoyed because it's his damn breakfast in Vasquez's mouth.

“What do you want?”

“You don't call, you don't text,” Vasquez says, eating some more bacon. “I thought Red here was going to cry. I know my heart is just breaking. Here I thought we were friends. _Amigos_. _Compadres_.” 

“My money better still be on the fucking counter,” Billy says. 

“Hey now, might start thinking you don't trust us.” 

Billy sits down and pulls the bacon away from Vasquez. “What do you want?” 

“You missed practice.” That comes from Red. “Twice. And you haven't been answering your fucking phone. None of us have time for whatever bullshit you're going through.” 

“Just busy.”

Vasquez eats some more toast. “What's going on, man? We need a fucking drummer if we want to book shows. And I don't know about you, but I want to get fucking paid.” 

“Then get a day job.” 

“And waste these good looks?” 

“Just been busy.” Vasquez has his cigarettes sitting on the table. He's eating Billy's breakfast, so Billy takes one, finding a lighter in his front pocket, one of the cheap little Bics always floating around the place. “We can practice today.” Billy doesn't have to work tonight, and besides, he's missed playing anyway. 

Vasquez steals his pack back, lighting one himself. “What, because we don't have lives?” 

“You don't,” Red says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen, pouring himself more coffee. He gets Billy some too. “We can't find the idiot either. His phone is turned off again.”

“He get arrested?” Wouldn't be the first time one of them had to go retrieve Faraday from the drunk tank. Billy wouldn't bother, if Faraday wasn't so damn good at getting them gigs. He's a good guitar player too, and Billy's used to him. It'd be more trouble to break someone else in. 

Red is looking past Billy. “Who's that?”

Goody is standing in the bedroom doorway. Billy raises a hand, so Goody knows it's alright to come out and sit. He doesn't always do very well with too many strangers in a small space, but Vasquez and Red usually know when to shut the fuck up and mind their own business. 

He's wearing one of Billy's tee shirts. Doesn't seem to matter anyway, their clothes are already so mixed up. And Billy can admit he likes seeing Goody in it. Likes it enough to want to get him back out of it, but Vasquez and Red are already pissed off at him. 

“Morning,” Goody nods at both of them. 

“Who're you?” Vasquez doesn't have food in his mouth, at least. 

“Goodnight Robicheaux,” Goody says. “And you are?” 

“Guillermo Vasquez.” 

“Red Harvest North.” That gets a look from both Billy and Vasquez. Red doesn't usually give out his full name. Billy only knows it because he carded Red the first time they met. “His name is Goodnight. I won't make fun of his, if he doesn't make fun of mine.” 

“Seems fair,” Goody agrees. 

He's sitting close enough Billy can put his hand on the back of Goody's neck, feel if he's tense. He doesn't talk about it, but he doesn't need to. Not with Billy. Goody's not the only one in the bed with nightmares. His just seem to follow him around in the daylight too. “Red and Vasquez are in the band with me.” He'd asked about the guitar and drum set in the corner of the apartment a week ago. 

“Thought you said there was another one of you?” He rolls his head back just a little, just enough Billy knows he's found a good spot with his thumb. 

“These two lost him,” Billy explains. “Again.”

“What is he, a dog?”

“That's an insult to dogs,” Red says. “We still need to practice.” 

He's not wrong. 

Billy leaves Goody with them, and gets in the shower. He still smells like that fucker's whiskey. Some of it had gotten in his hair. He hears the door open while he's washing it, Goody shutting it behind him and sitting on the floor. He probably wants one too, so Billy keeps it short. He gets in after Billy, groaning when the hot water hits him. 

“Alright?” Billy asks. 

“Sore.” Billy smirks, smirks even more when Goody calls out, “You get that look off your face.”

Vasquez got a hold of Faraday sometime while Billy was in the shower. Where the fuck he was, Billy doesn't care. He's headed over, and hopefully he's in one piece. Or at least mostly sober. 

While Billy gets his drum kit set up, Vasquez keeps looking at Red, nudging him. Billy waits them out. They only make it a few minutes before Vasquez asks, “Okay, what's the deal? 'Cause he's got _clothes_ here. And last time I checked, you were still pretending you didn't speak English to people like him.” 

Billy shrugs. “Is what it is.” 

He'd known that look on Goody's face, when he'd come in, quiet as a ghost, finding that dark corner. Billy had watched him from his post at the door, waited to see what he would do. He hadn't done anything, just stayed in the shadows, right up until that idiot with the loud mouth had dragged him out of it, started shouting the bar down. Billy's relief had clocked in, and Billy had gone to clock out. He'd ended up with a hand full of cash as morons kept telling him drink orders. 

He'd known that look on Goody's face, in the center of all of those people. 

When Goody had come out in the alley, Billy had taken it as the sign it was. 

“I didn't even know you swung that way,” Vasquez says. 

“Wasn't any of your business.” 

“What?” Vasquez gestures at Red. “You hear this?” Red doesn't look up from his guitar. “You saying I am not a handsome man, Billy? Because I have it on good authority from many, many women, that I am a catch.” 

Red keeps tuning his guitar. “And yet, none of them come back for more.” 

“Shut up, motherfucker.” Vasquez throws a pick at him. 

They're ready to start by the time Goody comes out. He ducks around the other two to get to Billy, leaning down. “You want me to go?” 

“No.” He kisses Goody, sliding his hand around to cup Goody's head, keep him close. “But it'll be noisy.” He's warning him without making too much of it. Goody knows what he can handle.

“Think I'll sit on the balcony.” 

“Alright.” He lets him go, but watches while he leaves. 

Vasquez waits until Goody slides the door shut to whistle. “Damn, but you got it bad, Billy.” 

“If he kills you, I'm not going to stop him,” Red says. “And neither will Faraday. That fucker will put it on YouTube.” 

They go through a few songs before Faraday finally shows up, Billy's mind clear of any of his bandmates' bullshit. He doesn't have to think when he's playing music. It's all just one motion after another. Even Faraday rolling in, wearing what looks like yesterday's clothes a few days worth of beard, can't throw him off. Faraday's too hung over to start shit anyway, just takes his place. 

When they break to eat, takeout from the Chinese place across the street, Goody comes back inside. 

“Move,” Billy tells Faraday, shoving him out of the chair beside Billy. 

“What the fuck, man?” Faraday moves though, and Goody takes the seat. “Who's this?” 

“Billy's boyfriend,” Vasquez says, kicking out another chair for Faraday. “Get this, his name is Goodnight. Like, legit.”

“Ha,” Faraday cackles. “That's worse than Red Harvest!”

“Not in my apartment,” Billy warns Red, stealing some beef and rice off of Goody's plate after he's filled it, Goody struggling a bit with his chopsticks. “Forks,” he says to Goody pointing out the plastic ones by the rice. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. Never could get the hang of these.” 

Vasquez watches them over his beer. “Billy can be nice. Who knew?” 

“He's never nice to us,” Faraday complains. 

Goody eyes him. “So you know my name, friend. What's yours?” 

“Joshua Faraday! Greatest hype man, guitarist, singer, and lover, in all of Baton Rouge!” 

They're all too damn used to Faraday to say shit at this point, not even Red. 

But Goody hums, and says, “I don't know about the first three, but Billy here's got you beat for the last one.” He hitches his chin at Faraday. “Could give you a blow-by-blow, if you like.” 

Vasquez falls out of his fucking chair, howling, and even Red laughs. Faraday actually shuts the fuck up for a good minute. 

“He's a better guitar player too,” Red adds.

“Hey, I take offense to that!” Well, it was a nice minute of silence. 

“Why, he is.” Vasquez is climbing back into his chair, but Faraday tries to punch him once he gets within reach. “What, _gringo_ he is. Don't get your panties in a twist.” 

“Is not! And quit calling me that!” 

“Quit being one, then,” he says, shoving Faraday in the head. “You get us a job? You promised a fucking job.” 

“And I got us one, what did you think I was doing before I got here?”

Red looks at Billy, but Billy lost interest in what idiots do in their spare time long before he met Faraday, so he just shrugs. 

“ _What_ you were doing, or _who_?” Red asks. 

Faraday takes a sip of his beer. “Got us a job, didn't I?” 

A gig's a gig, as far as Billy is concerned. Wherever Faraday stuck his dick to get it doesn't matter, but Vasquez likes giving him shit, and Red likes watching it happen, so that's got the three of them occupied. Billy puts his arm over the back of Goody's chair, not listening to them. Goody lights a cigarette and passes it to Billy, the pair of them sharing while they eat. 

“Mighty interesting friends you have, Billy,” Goody says. 

Billy shrugs. “You're welcome to them.” 

“Am I, sweetheart?” Goody inhales, then leans over, kissing Billy and breathing the smoke into his mouth. “Thinking you might be getting the better end of that bargain.” 

It's a good gig. Faraday isn't good for much overall, but he does somehow manage to get them damn good gigs. Billy sits quietly on the couch while Vasquez and Red argue over the set list, not paying much attention while he twirls a drum stick. Goody's gone back outside on the balcony, but Billy's pretty sure it was just because he was bored. 

He pays attention when he realizes Vasquez is asking him something. “What?”

“You willing to switch it up for this one? Red'll take the drums, you up front?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, come on,” Faraday whines. “Getting you out front always gets us booked again. Women fucking love you.” He gestures at the sliding glass doors. “Though now I know why you never take them up on it. Was really curious about that, actually.” He points to Vasquez. “But Vasquez said you'd probably kill us if we asked, and I figured he was probably right, because of that time with that guy you stabbed in the hand when he called you that name Red says I'm not allowed to say.” 

“Your _mamí_ must have dropped you or something, 'cause even I haven't hit you in the head hard enough for you to be this fucking stupid, _gringo_ ,” Vasquez says. 

Red is packing up his guitar. “I always thought she must have drank while she was pregnant.” 

“That would explain it,” Vasquez says. 

“Talk about my mom one more time, and I'll kick both your asses!” 

“If we stop blaming your _mamí_ , then you being this damn stupid is your own damn fault.” Vasquez is lighting another cigarette, but he passes it to Faraday. “Take a hit of that, yeah? You suck when you're trying to quit.” 

“You wish,” Red mutters. “Anyway, you got to play, Billy. This lady heard you play three months ago. Faraday says she requested it, and we want to get booked again.” 

Billy wants to say he doesn't fucking care, but the money is good. He's not opposed to more money.

“Five songs,” Faraday negotiates. 

“One,” Billy counters.

“Four,” Vasquez demands. 

“One.” 

“Three?” Red asks. “Come on, man. I need a break during shows.” 

“How about we settle for two,” Faraday says, Vasquez nodding along.

“I offered one, take it or leave it.” 

The balcony door slides open, Goody coming back in. Billy checks on him over his shoulder, but Goody's fine, standing and stretching. He comes to Billy when Billy extends a hand, Billy getting his arm around Goody's waist, nuzzling at his hip while Goody rakes a hand through Billy's loose hair. 

“Hey, Goody,” Faraday says, “you heard Billy sing yet?” 

“Can't say that I have, not yet,” Goody answers him. 

Billy's warning Faraday, but the idiot really must have fucking brain damage, because he keeps fucking talking. “Why don't you come by the show? Billy's going to be up front for two songs.” 

“That's something I wouldn't mind seeing.” Fuck.

“Two songs,” Billy agrees, before Faraday pushes his luck. “Now get out.” 

“Whatever, asshole,” Red says, getting up to do just that. “Either of you two want a ride, you better be downstairs by the time I've finished a cigarette.” 

That gets the other two out quick.

He turns, and pulls Goody between his legs. “ _Cher_ why am I getting the feeling I just got used for some underhanded purpose?” 

“I don't like being out front. And Faraday's stupid, but he knows how to work a room.” He noses at Goody's waistband, not sure just what he wants right now exactly. But he likes keeping Goody close. “I'll do it if you're there, though.” 

“Don't have to do that, darling. I'd take a private show any day.” He climbs into Billy's lap, leaning down so he can kiss right under Billy's ear. “Take anything you're willing to give me.” 

“I think I've worked that out on my own.” 

“Yeah? Reckon I'm working you out too, sweetheart.” He kisses Billy's jaw. “Must say though, I don't mind knowing I can be used as a way to work you.” 

Sometime around seven, they're watching some documentary about elephants. Billy is only half-listening, his head on a pillow in Goody's lap while he twirls a knife back and forth between his fingers, a mindless motion. “Not going to lie, _cher_ ,” Goody says, stroking Billy's scalp. “That's a bit more of a turn-on than I'd of thought.” 

Without sitting up, Billy throws the knife, embedding it dead center in the dartboard over the television. 

“God damn.” He's still stroking Billy's scalp, and it feels good enough Billy turns his head so Goody can reach more. “It's funny. Never been with someone with long hair. Never thought I'd like it.” 

“Stopped cutting it after my discharge. Always liked it better long.” His parents had disagreed, but the tattoo on his arm had been the actual final straw with his father. His father was a traditional man, and his son was not supposed to look like a thug. 

Billy supposes the part where he is in fact, something like a thug, might have been the true fault that opened the rift between them so wide that all of South Korea was not enough distance between them. He wonders idly, not for the first time, if his aunt has ever told them Billy is here. She's his father's sister, after all. It's something she would take into account, maybe feeling like she owed his father that much information.

If he knows though, he's never done anything about it. And she probably hasn't, anyway. There was bad blood there, some old fight from before Billy was born. 

“Let's go out,” he suggests. “Get dinner.”

“Got something in mind?”

“Somewhere with whiskey.” 

They go to a dark bar, find a booth so they can keep their eyes on the room. Old habits for Goody, not so old for Billy. People tend to try to start things with him when they see him again. 

There's no trouble tonight. They eat and drink, Goody making observations about the other people in the bar, things to make Billy laugh. It starts getting noisy though, too many people. Billy's getting uncomfortable himself, but when he sees Goody's hands are starting to shake, he decides it's time for them to leave. 

Outside, he lights a cigarette for Goody so Goody doesn't have to bother with the lighter, then lights his own, staying close. 

“Sorry,” Goody says, a needless apology. “Comes and goes.”

“Did they give you anything for it?”

Goody shakes his head. “Tried a few things, but none of them did much good. Half of them made the nightmares worse.”

Billy can relate. The first medication they put him on hadn't done anything but make him more dangerous to people around him. He'd been lucky that the person he'd attacked had been another man he'd served with, and there had been others around to hold him down. He'd never lost control like that before. It had unnerved him more than he could explain.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Shit,” Goody says, surprising Billy. “How long you going to put up with this, sweetheart?”

“Put up with you?” he asks, looking for clarification. He comes closer, herding Goody to the side of the building, a dark brick alley, so they're safe in the shadows. 

He lets himself be herded, but he pulls back from Billy. “This ain't even the fucking worst of it!” He hisses. “Why do you think I got discharged? It's because I ain't good for anything anymore! I can't even hold down a job!” He turns away from Billy, the cigarette falling to the ground. He steps on it hard, his whole body shaking now. “Why the fuck are you just letting me hang around? You feel sorry for me or something?”

Billy leans his shoulder against the wall, blocking Goody from view. “I don't feel sorry for people in general.”

“So what is this?” Goody is still facing away from him. 

“I like having you around.”

“Why?”

“You make me breakfast.” 

Goody huffs, laughs. “So what, I'm your housewife?” He turns, slumping further down on the wall. “What are you doing with me, darling?”

Billy comes into his space, kisses him. Goody kisses him back, his hands in Billy's shirt, and when they break, he hides his face in Billy's neck. “It is what it is, Goody. So unless you're planning on leaving, we're going home now.” He doesn't pull away from Billy, stays right there in Billy's arms. He's still shaking, but there's no undercurrent of violence. Billy knows the difference. “They're just dreams, Goody. I can handle dreams.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think I haven't noticed? You sleep half on top of me.” He rubs Goody's back, like he does when Goody's nightmares wake him. “I was special forces. I don't sleep through anything, much less you.” 

Goody lifts his head, meets Billy's eyes. “I've had nightmares with you?”

“Do you think I don't have any?” Billy's have faded, over the years, but there have been plenty of times he's woken, fully alert, reaching for a knife. Times when the slightest sound from a neighbor had put Billy back in that frame of mind, ready to kill. “Let's go home. This isn't the place.”

He pulls Goody out of the alley, but keeps his arm around Goody's waist while they walk, hooking his fingers through Goody's belt loop. He guides them, so Goody can hide against Billy's shoulder. No one gives them a second look, probably thinking Goody is drunk. And if anyone does give them one, once they meet Billy's eyes, they find something else to look at. 

Outside their apartment building, he lets Goody go. He's settled down now, so Billy kisses him again, the pair of them up against the wall. 

“Can't go back to that house.” He gets his hands in Billy's hair, and Billy kisses him harder. “Can't work out why, but I don't want to be anywhere but with you.”

“That's good,” Billy says. “I've gotten used to breakfast.” He bites at Goody's neck, gets a leg between Goody's. “The sex is nice too. I even like the conversation.”

Goody laughs, but it's true. Billy doesn't care for most people, but Goody has slotted into place beside him like he's been there the whole time. And Billy likes him there, wants him to stay there. 

“You're not going anywhere without me, Goody.”

“Yeah?” 

They go upstairs, and get stripped down, Billy helping Goody with his buttons after he struggles with the first two on his own. “Thank you, darling,” Goody says, once it's off. He kisses the palm of Billy's hand when he cups Goody's face. “Don't know why I bother with these anymore.” 

Tonight, Billy dips into the stash his band mates keep in the coffee table drawer, rolling them both a joint. They smoke them in the bedroom, Billy with his back against the wall and Goody lying across his chest. 

“Don't think I've done this since I was sixteen and climbing out my bedroom window.” Goody takes a long hit and exhales. “There was this boy. Charlie Song. Drove this old Ford truck. Used to wait around the corner for me, and we'd go find somewhere to park. We'd sit in the back, smoke up, fool around.”

“Charlie _Song_ ,” Billy drawls, taking a hit himself. “You got a thing for Asians?”

Goody laughs. “Damn, but I walked into that one, didn't I?” He turns his head, presses his mouth to Billy's chest. “Thought Rebecca was going to skin me after the third time she caught me. She was waiting in my room. About scared the life out of me.”

“Who's Rebecca?” 

“She's our maid. She was my nanny too, when I was little. She's known me since the day I was born. Took care of me. Loved me more than she had to. Still does.” He takes another hit. “She's probably out of her damn mind right now.” 

“You should call her.”

Goody shakes his head. “She finds out where I am, she'll be here first thing to drag me back. And don't think she won't have something to say about you.” He pats Billy's tattoo. “Don't know where she'll start. The tattoo, the hair, or the job. This.” He holds up his joint. “Damn, she really might skin me this time.” 

“What about your mother?” They haven't really talked about this. It hadn't been relevant. It feels like it might be now, when Goody's admitted he won't go back to her. 

“My daddy died when I was overseas. Couldn't come back for the funeral. Was on a mission.” He takes another long hit. “She's never been all that damn happy with me, overall. Kept getting into trouble when I was a kid. She knew I was gay, too, she just never acknowledges it. Pretends I'm going to wake up one day and marry some girl she's shoved at me, have kids, live in the family house. Joining the army without asking for permission, now that one, she almost disowned me for. Daddy liked having a soldier to brag about though. And he never knew how I was, or if he did, he never said nothing. Left me half the money, at least.”

That answers the vague question Billy had about Goody's source of income. “Maybe I should be the kept man, then.” 

“I think you like hitting people a little too much for that.” He slumps further against Billy, the joint mostly done in his hand. Billy takes it, puts it out, then gives Goody a hit off his. “Not coming back for the funeral was about the last straw. Then I came back with all those damn medals, and she decided I was good enough to trot out for Baton Rouge society.”

Billy takes a hit, breathes up towards the ceiling. “I know the feeling. My father enjoyed the great honor of having a son of such...esteem.” 

“You didn't feel the same?”

“Do you?” He puts the joint out, and reaches over to get the light. “It doesn't matter. Like I said, another life.”

“Yeah? I get that, darling.” 

Goody sleeps easily beside him, the joint having done the job. Billy will have to tell Faraday to keep them in supply. 

The next morning, they have breakfast, Goody cooking while Billy tunes his guitar. He starts strumming when Goody sets it out, picking out a melody. 

“Would not have pegged you for a Johnny Cash fan, darling,” Goody says. 

Billy shrugs, only playing a little before he sets the guitar aside to eat. “Red likes him. And Johnny Cash songs go over well around here.” 

They're halfway done when Vasquez lets himself in, Red trailing. Billy had heard the truck, so he's not surprised, even if he's not interested in them right now. They sit at the table without being invited, Vasquez stealing bacon, because Vasquez is a dick.

“I'm getting the feeling I'm going to have start making more food,” Goody says. 

“Much appreciated, friend,” Vasquez says. 

“Faraday's too hung-over to get up the steps,” Red says, getting coffee. “Or maybe he's still drunk. Or both. Something.”

Goody lights a cigarette. “And you just left him there? Don't seem very friendly.”

“He's too fucking heavy.” Red adds more sugar. “And I don't care.”

“You are a fascinating individual to get acquainted with,” Goody says, meeting Billy's eyes, a smile on his face. Billy shakes his head.

“No, he's just an asshole,” Vasquez says, his mouth full. “We need to run through the set list before tonight.”

“Then help Faraday up the fucking steps.” Neither of them move, so Billy gets up and goes to find the idiot. He's on the second floor landing still, leaning over the railing, probably throwing up whatever cheap whiskey he'd drowned himself in. 

Billy's neighbor is yelling at him, so Billy sits down on the steps and watches. It's always funny when someone's yelling at Faraday.

“I've had enough of this shit,” she's screaming. “First all the damn music, then the fucking right over my head at five in the _god-damned morning_ -!”

“Lady! For the last time, I do not fucking live here! The person you want to yell at is _Billy_ , you know, scary Chinese asshole?”

“I'm Korean, redneck,” Billy corrects. 

“I am not a fucking redneck, I'm from Missouri!” Faraday falls down on his ass, back against the railing, gesturing in Billy's direction. “See that dick there? That's who you want to yell at, lady!”

She turns on Billy. “Alright, dumbass here says you're the one I have a problem with?”

“Hey,” Faraday groans. “That's not fair, lady, you don't even know me.”

“You were puking over the railing, stupid,” Billy says, standing up. “Get upstairs. We have to practice.”

“There's too many steps,” he whines.

“Okay, no, see this the damn problem!” His neighbor breaks in, getting in his face. Billy doesn't like people in his face. “You know you have neighbors, right? People with _day jobs_! I put up with the music because you keep it to the afternoon, but this waking me up at five in the damn morning because you can't keep your boyfriend gagged? Your stupid friends drunk in front of my door? That's not going to work for me!”

She's got her finger in his face. Billy looks down at her, and steps down the two steps. She backs up to give him space, biting her lip when they're on even ground, but not backing down. 

“Billy, man, I can't be a...that thing where you're part of a murder. I'm too pretty to go to jail.”

“ _Accessory_ , moron,” Billy tells him, still looking at his neighbor. “Are you done?”

“Are you going to keep it down?” she demands. 

Billy shrugs. “Are you?” 

“Everything alright?” It's Goody coming down the steps, Vasquez following. Billy reaches out for him, getting a hand in his front pocket. “Heard shouting.” 

Vasquez gets past them and helps haul Faraday back up. “Why you weigh so fucking much?” He hitches his chin at the neighbor. “ _Buenos días, precíosa _. I'm Guillermo Vasquez, who might you be?”__

__“Emma Cullen, and I'm married,” she tells him flatly. Her eyes are on Goody. “So you're the one waking me up at five in the damn morning? I'm sorry, I'm sure the sex is good, but could you maybe keep the volume down? If I wanted to listen to that, I'd watch porn.”_ _

__Vasquez, half-carrying Faraday, gets to the steps, already starting to laugh. “I'm just going to get him upstairs, get started.” The idiots don't even make it up the steps before they're both laughing._ _

__Billy doesn't give a damn, but Goody's gotten red, dragging his hand over his head. “Real sorry about that, ma'am. We haven't been very considerate, I suppose.”_ _

__“No, you haven't,” she agrees. “Now, I like to think I'm pretty easy to get along with. All I'm asking is that you wait until a decent hour before starting up on anything. Can we settle on that?”_ _

__Billy isn't feeling inclined to agree to anything she says, not after shouting in his face. But Goody's upset, and Billy starting shit with her will just make it worse. So when Goody says, “Yes ma'am, I think we can agree on that,” he doesn't argue._ _

__“Good.” She looks them both up and down. “He said you were Billy?” She nods at Billy. “And who are you then?”_ _

__“Goodnight Robicheaux, ma'am. People call me Goody.”_ _

__She eyes him. “Name like that, they got to call you something.” She nods at both of them. “Keep your drunks rounded up from now on, or I'm liable to let that boy fall over the rail.” She shuts her door, leaving them alone._ _

__“Not going to lie, _ _cher__ , I would be surprised if it would be the first time that boy fell over a railing.” Goody's trying to be funny, but Billy still cups the back of his neck and kisses him, so he relaxes again. “Think we should be doing this in front of her door?”_ _

__“I don't care.”_ _

__“Remind me to get some manners into you before you meet Rebecca, or my mama.”_ _

__"You can try."_ _


	3. Chapter 3

Billy, Goody has noticed, has a very particular talent when it comes to people. All he has to do is look at a person, and they seem to pick up real fast that Billy is not a man to be argued with. 

The boy guarding the tables in the roped-off section of the club isn't any exception. Billy tells him Goody is sitting there, and the boy steps aside. 

“You trying to get me in trouble, sweetheart?” Goody asks, watching Billy pass his hand over the candle flame. 

“I'm in the band. This is a courtesy.” He quits it with the flame when the server comes over to take their drink orders. “Red uses it for his father, and the other two use it for whoever it is they're trying to fuck that night.” 

The server comes back with the drinks, but while Goody's grateful to see the whiskey in this crowded room, he takes it easy. He wants to be at least mostly sober when Billy is up front, wants to remember this. And at least up here, there's only a few people. 

He settles a bit when Billy puts a hand on the back of his neck. “Alright?”

“No,” he admits. “But it'll be easier when the lights are down, and the music's playing.” 

Billy takes him at his word, kissing him before he goes off to join the others backstage. 

The server offers Goody another drink when he finishes his, but he waves her off. “Ask me in another half-hour, miss. Want to keep my head on straight, tonight.” They're already turning the lights lower, people moving around the stage, setting up. Club is fuller, but with the darkness, Goody's a little more comfortable. 

There had been one or two acts beforehand, but apparently Billy's group is well-known locally, and people start cheering when they come out. Faraday and Vasquez are loving it, from what Goody can tell, leaning over and whistling at people in the crowd, while Red hangs back. 

Billy, behind his kit, is twirling a drumstick. Seeing him do it is soothing, helping Goody keep himself settled, even with Billy so far away. The music helps too, Vasquez up front for now, singing something blues-y. It puts Goody in the same place of mind he was in a few nights ago, when a summer storm had blown up and knocked the power out. They'd had to keep the windows open to keep the apartment bearable, while they spent most of the storm having sex on top of the sheets. 

It's a good frame of mind to stay in. He's not on the edge of falling apart anymore, isn't worried about it at all. He can close his eyes and focus on the drumming, the rhythm like a heartbeat against his ear. 

The server brings him another drink right as Red sets his guitar in a stand on the stage and goes to switch with Billy. Billy's guitar is waiting, and Vasquez backs up from the mike, leaving it open. 

It's that Johnny Cash song, Goody realizes. _I'd Be Fool Enough_. They've added to it, the song more in the style they've been playing all night. More blues, more guitar. More lyrics too. Goody wonders who wrote them.

But all that doesn't mean much, not right now. Because it's Billy singing it, not Johnny Cash.

Goody takes a sip of the whiskey, but keeps his eyes on Billy. He knows Billy can't see him, not really, but he's looking in Goody's direction. He's looking Goody's way and he's singing that damn song, and damn, he should have asked for that private show, because it's hitting him too hard and he can't do anything about it. Not right now. 

Song changes into the next, one of their own, but it's still Billy singing. Goody closes his eyes, listens, until that one ends too, and Billy switches with Red again. Someone in the crows shouts _“No!”_ loud enough it carries, but without looking back, Billy holds up a middle finger, and they all laugh. 

There's only a few more songs, but Goody can't stand the club anymore. He's heard Billy sing, and that's what he wanted, so he steps outside and somehow manages to light himself a cigarette. The quiet of the alley isn't enough, but Goody knows he's got to wait. If he just waits, Billy will come out, and he'll be able to settle. 

For now, he just has to wait, so he waits.

When Billy comes out at last, he asks, “Enjoy it?” His arms come around Goody, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Goody's head, the other hooking around Goody's waist.

Goody's got both arms around Billy's shoulders without even thinking. “See, here I was, thinking you could not possibly be any more attractive, and you have to go and prove me wrong, _cher_.” 

Billy grins and pushes Goody up against the wall, kissing him hard. The hand down by Goody's waist isn't behaving like they're in the public, getting under Goody's shirt and going up over Goody's bare skin. Hell, none of Billy is behaving like they're in public, Billy getting a leg between Goody's thighs, kissing him like he does when they're alone and headed towards something good. 

He fists Billy's hair when Billy moves down to his neck, rocking his hips into Billy's thigh just a little, just enough to skirt the edge of this. “You play that song for me, darling?” He gets bitten for that, Billy marking him up, and damn, _damn_. “Wanted to get down on my knees for you right then, I swear.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Billy says, and that's all it takes for Goody to start undoing his belt. 

It's as far as he gets, probably for the best, since public indecency is most assuredly still a thing, because the door opens, and it's Red. 

“This is an alley,” he says. “That's disgusting.” 

“Do you have a point?” Billy asks, his arms braced against the wall, around Goody. Goody fixes Billy's belt for him. He ain't all that happy about getting caught, but it's a little too funny for him not be grinning against Billy's cheek.

Red shrugs. “We're leaving. You want a ride?” 

Billy looks at Goody, asking. It's a hot night, and Goody can't argue with air-conditioning. “It would be awfully helpful in getting us somewhere private, darling,” he says into Billy's ear. 

“Fine,” Billy tells Red. 

They share the backseat with Faraday, who is too damn interested in annoying the shit out of Vasquez. “I'm just saying, it ain't fair you always get shotgun!”

“It's not my fault you're too stupid to call it faster, _gringo_ ,” Vasquez says, passing his cigarette back to Faraday. “'Sides, you always piss Red off because you fuck with the radio, unlike me, who was raised with some damn manners.” 

“Red's taste sucks!” 

Red's got it on some station playing hard punk rock, kept low, but still audible. If he cares about what Faraday is saying, he doesn't show it. Goody doesn't mind it, sitting between Faraday and Billy, mostly on Billy. There's no seat belt in the middle seat, so it's easy enough to do, even if does feel reckless. Red drives slow though, stops at every sign. 

He slows at a yellow light, and Faraday leans over Goody to get at him. “Jesus wept, Red, you drive like an old woman!”

“Be nice, _gringo_. You know what's going to happen if his _papí_ finds out he did something a little risky.” That gets Vasquez and Faraday both laughing, Faraday leaning over Vasquez's seat to steal another hit off his cigarette. “Watch, it be like that time that _pendejo_ dropped that engine on Red's foot, and Jack showed up at the hospital, screaming his damn head off like some mama hen -”

“Fuck off,” Red says. 

“Wait, hey, no, if Red does something dumb and Jack comes down again, we get _food_ , Vasquez, man -”

“Shit, you right, Red, run a light or something!”

In the back, Goody tucks his face up under Billy's jaw, kisses him. Billy's got his fingers dipping into the waistband of Goody's jeans, rubbing his hip, and while he's too damn old for that to get him going, it's a fun tease. It's dark in the truck, just the streetlights coming in, so Goody can close his eyes and relax. He likes listening to the three of them. It's like the barracks, like the tents.

The boys hang around in the apartment without asking, drinking beers while Faraday shuffles a deck of cards, doing little tricks carelessly enough Goody can spot the genuine skill. 

“ _Cher_ , why am I getting the curious premonition that I am about to be witness to Faraday's true talent in this world?” Goody asks in Billy's ear, the pair of them sharing a joint. 

Billy smiles, and shakes his head. 

“Roll up your sleeves, Faraday,” Red warns, lighting his own joint. 

“What? I am _offended_ by the lack of trust being shown here,” Faraday declares. “Here we are, practically _brothers_ -”

Vasquez exhales a smoke ring. “Roll 'em up, _güero_. You know the rules.”

“Quit calling me that,” Faraday grumbles, pushing his sleeves up anyway. “Maybe I'm just a natural talent, has anyone ever considered that?”

Billy takes the joint when Goody offers it, and shakes his head. “No.”

“Come on, man, seriously? You're getting laid now!” He elbows Vasquez. “I thought you said he'd be nicer if he was getting some?”

“Why are you talking about me at all?” Billy passes the joint back, and Goody takes a long drag, draping his arm over the back of Billy's chair. 

“'Cause we're your friends, and we are interested in your life,” Faraday says, finally dealing the cards. “Speaking of, how about we all start getting to know you a little better, Goody? We have to make sure you're worthy of our Billy, after all.” 

Goody might not be good for much these days, but he's still damn good at reading a room, and people too. And he's not at all sure he likes Faraday's tone, because it is not like how he's known the man so far. He's still smiling, but the edge there is new, tipping Faraday's hand and telling Goody that Faraday is not nearly as much the fool as he's been acting. 

“What are you asking, exactly, friend?” 

Faraday deals the cards. “You're just something of a surprise, is all. No harm meant.” He hitches his chin at Red. “I mean, Red and me had a bet Billy was like, some kind of secret monk or something. Personally, I was leaning towards him being a robot. They got all sorts of weird robots over where he's from.”

“Coming up on crossing that line, idiot,” Red says. 

“What? No, that doesn't count! It's true about the robots!” Red shakes his head, but Faraday still adds, “Would have been cool if he was a robot.”

“I had money on him being a monk,” Vasquez says, putting chips into the pot, and giving Red a look. “Last time I back your horse, _hermanito_.” Red shrugs at that, putting in more chips. “Hey, wait, you get a good hand? What the fuck, _gringo_?”

“Five minutes ago you were making me roll my sleeves up!” He still takes the joint when Vasquez offers it, then dutifully passes it back. “Anyway, talk around town is that Goodnight Robicheaux is some kind of fancy war hero.”

“Mind your own business,” Billy warns him.

Goody though, he's still got Billy's song in his ears, and the joint has done him good. “Quite the spymaster, aren't you?” He digs his fingers into Billy's shoulder, because Billy is getting tense, but Goody's high enough he's not bothered, even if that might have been Faraday's intention. “I think you know people tend to talk just for something to talk about. Doesn't mean any of it ever holds water. I was in the Army. Now I'm not.”

“I was in, myself, for about five minutes,” Faraday says, concentrating on his cards. Goody has hardly even glanced at his. “And Red here was a Marine, but his father is Jack Horne.”

That's a name that takes Goody back. He turns to Red, taking the joint when Billy offers it. “He ain't blowing smoke? Your daddy is Jack Horne?”

Red taps his joint on the ash tray, and shrugs, but Vasquez, getting another beer, wraps an arm around Red and yanks him close, kissing his temple. “ _Mi hermanito_ doesn't like to brag, and 'sides, Jack bakes cakes and shit now,” he says. “His _tres leche_ cake will make you cry, no joke. Nah, but wait, you from here, what do they like here?”

“Beignets,” Goody suggests, even though he doesn't much care for them. He takes another hit, ducking his head down after Billy takes the joint back, so he can nuzzle Billy's shoulder. He'd stripped down to his undershirt once they were back in the apartment, so it's bare skin Goody is up against. “You telling me Jack Horne makes birthday cakes now?”

“He likes it,” Red says. 

“So, you like, living here?” Faraday asks Goody, not letting the subject turn for long. “You two sure move fast.” 

“Makes my life easier,” Billy says, leaning back in his chair, his weight hitting Goody's arm. 

“Quit pushing, _gringo_ ," Vasquez says, coming back in with beers for everyone. “Why you got to be in everyone's damn business? Billy's getting some, we don't hate who it's with, so just let it go.” 

“And if he turns out to be a serial killer, what then?” 

“I get some peace and quiet, because us brown boys die first in those stupid fucking movies,” Vasquez says, putting more chips in. “We're playing cards. Play cards.” 

After they're gone, and it's just the two of them again, they lie together in the bed naked, the air conditioning only able to do so much in the Louisiana summer. Billy's fingers follow Goody's ribs, his hips, letting Goody breathe in silence. Eventually, his mouth finds Goody's skin too, over the tattoo, then up, so he can bite and suck another mark into Goody's collarbone. 

Goody twines his fingers into Billy's hair while he does it, tugs just hard enough that Billy gets his teeth into Goody that much more. “Darling, you are just dead set on debauching me every chance you get, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Billy replies, coming up further so he can kiss Goody. “You like it.”

“Indeed I do, _cher_ ,” Goody admits, letting Billy between his legs. “Can think of some things you like, too.” 

There's blackout curtains in the bedroom, so it's not the sun that wakes them; it's the knocking on the door. Billy is already up, pulling his jeans on, and slipping one of his switchblades in the back pocket. 

“Calm down, darling,” Goody cautions, even though his own heart is racing. “The boys are probably hungry, is all.”

“Red's got a key. And I know the other two morons made copies.” That does not surprise Goody in the slightest, but he still gets out of bed, finding some sweatpants and a shirt from the basket of folded laundry. “Stay.”

Goody ignores him, coming around the bed to hook his arms around Billy's neck. “I think you might be a little too wound up to be greeting anyone.” He taps Billy's pocket. “And put that back in that drawer. Damn sure it ain't legal for you to be carrying it.” When he gets that flat expression back, Goody grins. “And put a shirt on.”

“You like me without a shirt.”

“But I don't like sharing.”

That gets him a smirk. He lets go, and heads out of the bedroom. For all his talk though, he opens the door on the chain. 

“Well, damn.” He shuts the door again so he can undo the chain, and let Sam Chisolm in. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting my ex-wife off my back, and out of my precinct.” Shit. 

He waves Sam further in, scratching the back of his head. He's going to need some coffee and a cigarette or two for this conversation. “Coffee?”

“Considering how tempted I am to put you in the back of the car and deliver you to Rebecca myself, I think I am owed some damn coffee, Goodnight.” That settles that. Goody starts the coffee, and finds a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen counter. They're Faraday's, he's pretty sure, but they'll do the job. 

When there's enough coffee brewed for him and Sam, he pours them both some and comes around to the kitchen table to sit with Sam. He can see Billy standing in the bedroom doorway over Sam's shoulder, so he shakes his head. If he wants Sam out at any point, Billy will see to it, he's sure, but Goody's pretty positive this is a conversation he'll be facing some serious retribution for if he avoids it. 

“Rebecca's a bit put out, then?”

“Rebecca is damn good and pissed off, Goody.” Sam looks over his shoulder at Billy. “And who might you be?”

“He's Billy,” Goody answers, when Billy chooses to just look at Sam. “Billy, this is Sam. He's Rebecca's ex-husband.” 

Billy tilts his head. “Your nanny sent her cop husband to track you down?”

“He ain't met Rebecca yet, has he?” Sam asks, starting to smile. 

“No, he has not,” Goody replies, laughing. “Which is why he is even daring to doubt the hurricane that is Rebecca Chisolm.” He taps his cigarette on the ashtray, the guilt eating away at him. Rebecca doesn't deserve this kind of grief from him, never has. Sam doesn't either, when it comes down to it. “I meant to call her. I just...” 

Every time he thinks about that house, his chest closes up.

Sam takes the pack from the table, and gets a cigarette out. Goody passes him the lighter, but adds, “I do remember getting one hell of a dressing down when I was sixteen, and Rebecca found my pack. Seem to remember you being a part of said dressing down.”

“Which is why I will tan your hide like she threatened to back then if you tell her.” He inhales, then drinks some more coffee. “I will say, I do think she has successfully given my officers some nightmares that will haunt them until their last days. One of my boys even tried to tell her she was not allowed to just come up into my office.”

Goody about falls out of the chair. “I hope you gave that poor soul a vacation.”

“Boy was fit to faint,” Sam says, laughing. “He just got here from Texas. Didn't know who she was. I thought Teddy was going to hand in his badge right then and there.”

“Rebecca never has taken kindly to being told what she can and can not do.” Goody thinks about his phone, every ignored call and unread text. He hadn't even checked them, made sure he was drunk or high so he didn't have to remember them when he dismissed them at the end of the night. “Had nothing to do with her.” He doesn't know how to explain, but it doesn't matter, not with Sam.

Sam takes another drag, not saying anything for a good minute. It's a minute Billy uses to come into the room, sitting beside Goody. Goody offers him his cigarette, and Billy takes a hit, before passing it back and taking Goody's coffee. It's a good long minute, where Goody sees how Sam watches Billy drape his arm over the back of Goody's chair, drinking Goody's coffee. 

Finally, Sam says, “I hope that tattoo is some henna from the street fair, for your sake.”

“No.” Billy takes another hit off Goody's cigarette. 

There's a look Sam gives Goody, but Goody just grins. Sam shakes his head, takes a hit off his own cigarette. “Your mother came down to the precinct, too.” Now, that, that is an entirely different conversation, and Goody doesn't feel much like smiling. “Seeing as how you are an adult, that you left under your own power, and all your mental faculties are intact, I informed her she had no right to any information on your movements.”

He relaxes, just enough that he can breathe right again. “Thank you, Sam.” 

“Not necessary. That is, in fact, the law of the land. And truth be told, I didn't mind telling her just that.” He can just bet Sam had no trouble at all shutting her down. His mother had never cared for Sam, for reasons Goody doesn't much like to think about, and she'd never hidden it. “Rebecca just wants to know you're alright though. She's convinced herself you're sleeping on a bus bench.”

That tears at Goody something bad. “Tell her I'm sorry, Sam.”

“I don't think so. I've done my part. And me and her are _divorced_ , remember? You tell her, let her see you for herself.” He raises his eyebrows and nods at Billy. “But maybe don't let her see him.” 

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Billy asks, in that flat, airy tone he favors when someone is pissing him off. 

“Be nice, _cher_ ,” Goody says. “Rebecca's got ideas about certain things, is all. And tattoos?” He taps Billy's arm. “Trust me, she has some very vocal ideas about them. Sam is just looking out for me, making sure you stay in one piece. And since I like you in one piece...” 

It appeases Billy enough he smiles, and settles down again. “Do you think I'm scared of your nanny?”

“Son,” Sam says. “I was married to that woman for over twenty years, been divorced from her for about ten, and she still puts the fear of God in me.” 

“I wasn't raised with your god,” Billy replies, and it takes everything in Goody's power not to fall over laughing. “Should be interesting.”

Sam laughs, and puts the cigarette out. “That's one word to describe how that meeting is going to go.” He stands up, the chair scratching on the old tile. “Now I've done as I was ordered, and I've got a job to get back too.” 

Goody follows him to the door, leaving Billy at the table. When they get to the entryway, Goody reaches out and hugs Sam, Sam's arms coming up too. “It's good to see you, Sam. Been too long.” 

“My address ain't changed,” Sam tells him. “You're always welcome. I'll even concede to your bodyguard coming too.” They part, and Sam looks him up and down. “You look good, must say. Better than I've seen you in a long time. That boy treating you right?”

“Yeah,” Goody says. “He is.”

He gets a pat on his shoulder for that, but he also gets Sam grinning and saying, “I don't think it'll be enough to persuade Rebecca, though.” 

“Not likely,” Goody agrees. 

Billy is still sitting at the table, drinking Goody's coffee. He eyes Goody, asks, “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're a little paranoid, _cher_?” Goody asks, ducking down to kiss his cheek. “You want breakfast?” 

They go to the grocery store after they eat, Billy pushing the cart while Goody fills it. When Billy raises his eyebrows at how much food Goody is putting in, Goody says, “Thinking those boys are going to be eating us out of house and home now that they found a steady source of meals, is all.” Billy nods. “Any of those boys even know how to cook?” When Billy makes a face, Goody thinks about it. “Then again, I'm not entirely sure Faraday should ever be around an open flame. That boy is a walking combustible, I imagine. Not to mention, he don't seem all that bright.” 

“Him and Vasquez set off fireworks in their parking lot once. I couldn't believe they lived.”

“Fireworks ain't that bad, darling.”

“They set them off from the bed of Red's truck.” 

Somehow, Goody is not surprised at that. “God must truly smile upon the pair of them.” 

After they get the groceries home, Goody goes to the barber, leaving Billy home to sleep. He has a shift tonight, and with how handsy he had gotten when they were putting everything away, Goody knows he's not going to get any sleep if Goody stays and lies down with him. His hair is getting out of hand, in any case. 

He takes a walk once that chore is done, wandering around the neighborhood. 

It's another world, compared to where he grew up, but where the previous always felt like living in a museum, this world feels like a real life. Not an easy life, or even a great life, but at least it feels like _life_. The park he walked in as a child could have been a masterpiece still-life, hanging in a gallery, and just as silent as one. This park has people sitting around, playing checkers, skateboarding, grilling. The trash cans are too full, and he's rather sure the teenagers checking around are about to add to the graffiti on the bridge once they've got a chance.

But all of that, even the one kid shaking a spray paint can at his side, they make the place feel like somewhere people actually exist in. 

The kids notice Goody, and get that rabbit look. Goody holds up his hands and looks away. Not like he can pretend he didn't do plenty of dumb shit himself when he was their age. And besides, he might not like the idea, but maybe they'll put something nicer over the curse words some other little jackasses put on the bridge. 

He hasn't thought about Charlie Song in an age, but Billy and the joint had knocked those memories loose. Charlie had loved street art. He'd brought Goody along for most of his stuff, after they'd gotten together. Goody had usually sat on the tail of Charlie's truck, holding up the light so Charlie and his buddies could work. 

It had been Sam that busted them one night. Goody hadn't gone home for two days by then, sleeping over at Charlie's, skipping school too. The other kids had scattered, but Sam hadn't been much interested in them. He'd told Charlie to go home, then shoved Goody into the patrol car. Goody doesn't remember being too happy with Sam that night, but looking back, Sam had only been looking out for him. He always has. 

When he was growing up, sometimes, more often than not, he had wished he could go live with Rebecca and Sam, be their son instead. 

His phone vibrates in his back pocket, so he checks it. 

It's from Rebecca. _-Sam says he saw you. Says you look good._

He almost dismisses it, but instead he leans against the side of a bodega, swallows, and types, _He dropped by.-_

There's no reply for so long, Goody wonders if she's even going to, but finally, she texts back, _-Please let me see you. I've been worried sick._

He could say no. He could turn the phone off, go back to the apartment and just crawl into bed with Billy. He has the option. 

But maybe because he does have the option, he texts her back, _Alright. When?-_

By the time the taxi drops him off at the cafe she'd told him to come to, she's already sitting inside, a cup of coffee in front of her. When she spots him, she doesn't hesitate to meet him halfway, wrapping her arms around him tight. She feels small in his arms. For some reason, he always forgets he's bigger than her now. 

He's not so much bigger that she can't land a good smack on the side of his head. “Damn it!” He swears, trying to get away, but she's got him in a vice grip. 

“Do you have any idea how many nights I have been sitting up thinking you were _dead_ ,” she hisses, “How many times I called Sam, begging him to look for you? And that was after I called every single person I could think of, I was calling _bars_ , Goody -!” She stops, rubbing at her eyes where she's starting to cry. “It felt just like when you were over there, Goody.

Her saying that is enough to feel himself getting a bit teared up, the guilt ripping him to shreds inside. “I'm sorry, Rebecca. I'm real damn sorry, but I just...that house is nothing but a mausoleum, Rebecca, and I could feel myself suffocating in it. I couldn't stand it one more night.” 

She rubs his arms, blinking heavily. “Oh, my boy. C'mon, sit down with me.” He does as he's told, sitting across from her at the table she'd been waiting at. She keeps a hold of his hands, rubbing them between hers. She'd done the same thing when he was sixteen and Sam hauled him home that night, when she'd asked Goody just what Charlie was to him. “Sam said someone was taking care of you. Don't ever believe anything that man says, but it looks like he wasn't lying this time.” 

“His name is Billy,” Goody tells her, getting out his phone. He's got more pictures of Billy than he likes to admit, but Billy never seems to care. He finds a good one, of Billy sitting at the kitchen table with his guitar. Vasquez is in the picture too, so Goody clarifies, “The one on the right, with the guitar.” 

“That boy can't find his way to a barber?” she asks dryly. She slides her thumb across the screen, and her eyes narrow at him. “Is that a _tattoo_ on his arm?”

“Rebecca, I have a tattoo,” Goody reminds her.

“And don't for one minute think I'm happy about that, boy,” she counters, holding up a finger without looking up from his phone. “I cannot believe you and those idiot boys you were serving with went and did that. And then posted it on Facebook, of all things! People from my prayer circle saw that picture!”

She means the picture of him, Sanchez, and Riesz, after they'd gotten their regiment tattoos. Goody had been drunk when he posted it, to be fair. The finger changes to full hand, and her turning his phone back to him. “Who are these people, Goody?”

That is not a picture he'd of shown her willingly. It's all three of the boys and Billy, Vasquez and Faraday posing proudly, Red and Billy both smirking. He'd taken it last night, after the show, right before they'd gone upstairs. Faraday is hanging off of Vasquez, the both of them clearly drunk, and Red is wearing a sleeveless shirt, the tattoos that cover his shoulders clear as day. 

Billy is looking at Goody, not the camera, blowing out smoke, his cigarette in frame. Goody had liked getting that look on camera. 

“He's in a band,” Goody says. “Those are the rest of them.”

“Boy,” Rebecca says, slapping her hand on the table. “Now, I know for a fact you were raised right, because I did the raising in question. So why is it that anytime I leave you alone, you somehow manage to fall in with heathens?” She looks at the picture one more time, shaking her head and passing him back his phone. “I blame Sam for this, because I know it can't have been my influence.”

Listening to this old lecture has him smiling at her, even if she doesn't give him one back. “I don't know about that. You were the one always telling me about how Jesus never judged his company.”

“I never intended you to emulate him so completely.” There's no real fire in it, never really has been, except for that time Sam brought him home, and even then, that had ended more quietly, after he confessed about Charlie. It hadn't been as though Rebecca didn't know, or at least suspected, he's sure, but she'd let him explain in his own time that night, holding his hand the whole time. “And I thought that boy with the spray paint was going to be the worst of it. You should have stuck with him, he's a lawyer now. Married to some Yankee boy, though.”

“And I wish him all the best,” Goody says, meaning it. 

“Well, you can wish it enough for both of us. Passing you over for a _Yankee_ , the nerve of him.” Of course she's offended on his behalf. That's Rebecca to a 't'. “So what's this young man do? I assume he has a real job?” That tone says that he better, or else. 

“Yes, ma'am, he does. He works security.” It's true enough she doesn't call him out. “The other boys have jobs too, for that matter.” He'd been less surprised than he thought he would be to find out Faraday worked for a bank, but reckless the boy might be, damn if he didn't have a head for numbers and a silver tongue when it suits him. He'd cleaned them all out over cards last night, even with his sleeves rolled up. “He's a good man. Understands me. And I understand him.”

She holds her coffee cup in both hands, looking at it instead of him. “He served?”

“For South Korea. We've got a lot in common.” She takes his meaning, and can see that it mollifies her a bit. “He's good for me. Think I might be good for him, too.” He thinks he's telling the truth. He's seen Billy around other people, how he gets tense, withdraws. When he's with Goody, he laughs. Lord knows how he's found something worth looking twice at it in Goody, but Goody isn't stupid enough to push, not again. “I can't go back, Rebecca. I cannot go back to that house. It'll be my coffin.” 

“Truth be told, I never wanted you to come back,” she confesses. When he asks, she says, “Every time when you came back from that place, that woman just made it worse. And when you came back this last time, I prayed you would find somewhere you could belong. Somewhere that wasn't where she could get her claws back in you.” It's not the most vicious he's ever heard Rebecca talk about his mother, even if it is nasty. 

No, the most vicious he ever heard Rebecca was after his mother voiced her opinions on Goody's preferences. When he'd repeated it to Rebecca, later that night in the kitchen, still shaken up something bad from the whole thing, he'd really thought she was going to go upstairs and lay into the woman herself. It had only been Goody begging her not to, not able to stomach the thought of losing her when his mother fired her then and there, that had kept her from doing it, he's sure. 

“I just want you somewhere safe, Goody,” she says now. Then her jaw clenches, and she adds, “If this boy is where you're safe, then I will...keep my opinions to myself, until I know him for myself.”

“You're going to meet him?” Lord, but that might be quite a show to see.

That gets him a look that makes him feel all of about six, for a minute. “See, this is how I know I let Sam have too much influence on you. You both seem to have this notion in your head that I am asking you a question, when I am in fact telling you something.” 

“Not as much as you might fear, ma'am, since unlike Sam, I am not fool enough to stand in your way.” 

“That's my boy,” she says, patting his hand. She follows it with a huff, and, “Really, Goody, a _band_. What kind of music do they even play?” 

He tells her, and the conversation turns to first music, then that the new cook had quit in a huff, and then the goings-on of her prayer circle that he's missed in the past weeks, including that apparently Sandra Owens had somehow or another stolen her sister's lemon bar recipe and had dared bring them to the social. Goody had been taken to those prayer circles more than enough times as a boy that he can just picture how well that went over, and he laughs, Rebecca scolding him for it even as she fights a smile of her own. 

A text from Billy lets him know how much time has passed without him even knowing it. _Heading out. Alright?-_

_-Fine, cher. Might drop by tonight._

_Good.-_

“That him?” Rebecca asks. He nods at her, and she pats his hand again. “Well, maybe I can get past him looking like a convict. Seeing you smile again is worth a whole lot, in my books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic got bigger because Pariahsdream and northisnotup are terrible fucking enablers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shows up late to my own fic with Starbucks from my own store) ...I work at _Starbucks_ , the fact I didn't kill anyone after pumpkin spice launch should be commendable on its own.

Billy has no idea what to make of the woman sitting at the kitchen table. He doesn’t think Rebecca Chisolm’s all that interested in making much of him, though. 

She’s a much smaller woman than Billy expected her to be from Goody’s description of her, dark-skinned, with her hair straightened and pulled back in a tight bun. She’s got the air of someone much bigger though, and she doesn’t try to keep it reined in. 

“I’m guessing Billy’s not your actual name,” she says, setting her coffee down. 

“Lots of us use nicknames here,” Billy tells her, uninterested in the topic, but willing to make nice for Goody’s sake. “Got mine from some Australians.” They hadn’t been able to say his first or last name to save their lives, but somehow or another they’d settled on ‘Billy’, and he’d been happy to use it if he didn’t have to listen to them butcher Korean with their accents anymore. 

He’d gotten used to it, and ended up liking it enough to keep it. Besides, he hadn’t been much interested in holding on to any part of his past when he’d gotten here.

Goody is fussing with something in the kitchen. Billy kind of wishes he’d stop and come back out. 

“James never really suited Goody, and it was his father’s name, and his other middle name was his grandfather’s,” she offers. “Goodnight was some great-something or other of his, and since no one living in the family was using it, it stuck to him.” That does explain that. Billy hadn’t thought it was important enough to ask about, but he’d been somewhat curious.

There’s a sudden noise, and she looks up. “Boy, what are you breaking in there?” she calls out, towards the kitchen.

“Nothing, ma’am,” Goody replies. “Just had a moment.”

Billy is up, but Rebecca is faster, taking the knife Goody was using to slice up the coffee cake from him without pause and taking over the task. “Go on and sit down,” she orders. 

“You were the one who told me it was bad manners for the guest to do the work,” he says, only stepping back a little. Billy reaches out, puts a hand between Goody’s shoulders, and rubs the spot. 

“Sit down,” Billy directs him, quietly. “I’ll do it.”

Rebecca eyes him, but she leaves him the job, and follows after Goody, taking him by the elbow and making him sit down. 

It had been a bad night, last night, Goody’s nightmares worse than usual. Neither of them had thought weed was a good idea, Goody worried it would make him more paranoid, Billy agreeing. They’d ended up sitting up most of the night on the balcony, Goody shaking against Billy while Billy held him, singing low in Korean until finally, Goody had been able to fall asleep. 

Billy slices the cake, then covers it back up, and takes the pieces in to set on the table. When he sits back down beside Goody, he puts his arm around the back of Goody’s chair, squeezing his shoulder. He knows how much Goody wants a cigarette right now, but he’d been pretty final with Billy that they couldn’t smoke around Rebecca, and Billy will respect that. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Goody says to him, and Billy squeezes his shoulder again.

Rebecca keeps her eyes somewhere else the whole exchange, but once it’s done, she asks, “Where did you get this, Goody?” She means the cake. 

“Bakery around the corner. Owner is a friend of Billy’s aunt.” He looks at Billy. “Though, not going to lie, darling, I don’t speak any Korean, but they didn’t seem all that friendly with one another.” 

Billy shrugs, not willing, or really even able to explain. “Think of them like Red and Faraday.” His aunt and Mrs. Sun would argue all damn day if they could, and they usually did, but if anyone else said anything about the other, they’d be lucky to walk away with any self-worth left intact. In turn, Billy had once witnessed Red almost break a man’s jaw for calling Faraday’s mother trailer trash.

They’ve all made their own jokes about Faraday’s parentage, but they’re the ones who drive up with Faraday for Mother’s Day, so he can put flowers on her grave. He likes to talk about her then. He never does, usually, not that Billy blames him. He likes to talk about her then, though. Sometimes, Red will even say something about his own mother, but only to Faraday, really. 

“It’s good,” Rebecca says, but then she adds, “Crumble is a little dry, though.”

Beside Billy, Goody laughs. “Here I thought you’d complain about how dense it is.”

“Coffee cake is supposed to be dense, Goodnight, I thought I taught you that.” She eyes Billy again, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t think she’s going to pack Goody up in her purse and take him with her, and he knows Goody wouldn’t go with her anyway. “Are the rest of them going to show up, then? Got the impression they thought this place had a revolving door, Goody.”

It’s a Saturday, so there’s a good chance they will, or at least Red, if the other two are getting on his nerves. Before Goody, Red used to spend a lot of time here when Vasquez and Faraday had pushed him too far. 

“Rebecca, two of those boys have been to war. Think they’ve faced down enough loaded guns for their lifetimes,” Goody remarks, and gets a sharp look from Rebecca.

“Boy, what have I told you about giving me lip,” she chastises, but there’s no heat in it. “I just want to meet these boys. I like to know everyone in your life. Even had those boys you served with over for lunch, if you remember right.”

Goody leans over towards Billy. “Sanchez and Riesz, I told you about them?” Billy nods, remembering. “They were so scared, I don’t think they said much more than ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ the whole time.”

“Means they were raised right,” Rebecca says. “What are you planning on doing these days, Goody? I know your mother’s opinion on you working, but I’ve never known you to like sitting idle. You tend to find trouble when you do.” 

It’s not a bad question. Billy doesn’t really care what Goody chooses to do or not do, but he does think Goody could use something to distract him. Billy can’t be around all the time, and he doesn’t like the idea of Goody sitting alone in the apartment, with his nightmares waiting in the corners for the chance to pounce. 

He’s not used to worrying about other people, not like this, but now he thinks he understands why Vasquez gets antsy about leaving Red or Faraday alone for too long. 

“Was thinking about taking a class or two,” Goody replies. “Community college nearby is starting up soon. They’ve got a few French literature classes, some history. Thought I might put that GI Bill to some good use.” 

“You always did enjoy school,” she says. “When you went.”

“Wasn’t my fault they insisted on all that math in between the good parts.” He catches the dry look Billy’s giving him. “What?”

Billy shakes his head. “Lazy Americans. Our children learn your _high school_ math and manage.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing you handle the bills, ain’t it darling?” It’s not like Billy is supporting Goody, at this point. Whatever money his father had left him, it must have been quite a bit, because Goody never even hesitates to pay his share. That said, it is all in Billy’s name still. He should probably look into that.

Rebecca, on the other hand, scoffs. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.” She’s talking to Billy. “Goody here’s got no idea how money works in the real world.”

“I do so,” Goody protests, but when Billy doesn’t come to his defense, he cuts his eyes at him. Billy doesn’t want to put Goody in a mood, but he’s never even asked to see the bills he’s helping pay. For all he knows, Billy is taking advantage, not that he is. 

Sometimes, Goody’s complete faith in Billy astounds him. His own faith in Goody astounds him more. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone like Goody before though. 

Rebecca and Goody start talking about some social group Rebecca belongs to, Goody giving asides to Billy to explain who the people they’re talking about are. Apparently, most of them, women Rebecca’s age, have known Goody since he was a baby, Rebecca having brought him along. 

“He was a little charmer, even back then,” Rebecca tells Billy, Goody grinning innocently. “Everyone used to warn me, ‘oh, you watch, he’ll get some girl in trouble by the time he’s sixteen’, but I always defended him. Knew my boy would be a proper gentleman.” She shrugs. “At least I was mostly right. My Goody here has always been a gentleman with the ladies.” Here she narrows her eyes. “Not so much with other gentlemen.” 

“I do believe I take offense to that,” Goody demurs. 

“Mm-hmm,” Rebecca hums. “And how long had you known this one here before you upped and moved in with him?” 

Billy thinks about it. “At least a day,” he drawls. 

It’s strange to think about, if he bothers. The rest of the band have pointed it out. But Billy has never much cared what other people think. 

Rebecca settles back, looking around the place. “I don’t think I’ve been on this side of the city since I was sixteen,” she says. “Goody’s grandmother hired me, you know, as a live-in maid, and an assistant for the cook. Crossed that line, and never looked back. It’s funny you ended up here, Goody.” 

“Don’t think I was ever meant for that sort of life, ma’am,” Goody says. 

“I just want to see you with a life,” Rebecca replies, her eyes darting to Billy. She’s a hard woman, he’s coming to see, but he understands why, and he doesn’t blame her. “And Lord, but I’ll be having myself a good laugh now, every time that woman has to make something up for her dinner guests about where you are. She’s been telling folks you’re on an art sabbatical, planning on going to France for a bit. Going to take everything in me to keep a straight face next time, after seeing this place.”

In reply, Goody dryly says something in French that has Rebecca outright laughing, Goody smiling. 

Seeing Goody smile again, especially after last night, has Billy tipping his head against Goody’s temple, needing to touch him. Goody turns toward him, their noses brushing, and says something else in French, low and sweet. 

“I would like to remind you I am in fact still at this table,” Rebecca says, making Goody chuckle. “And boy, if I find out you’ve gone and gotten yourself a courthouse marriage, I will skin you.” She audibly huffs. “Althea Mitchell would never let me hear the end of it.”

Whoever Althea Mitchell is, she doesn’t get brought up again, Goody taking Rebecca out on the balcony to show her the potted plants he’s started up. Billy sits on the steps outside of the front door, smoking a cigarette, and staring out the open staircase at the parking lot. Some of the teenagers from the surrounding buildings are playing a pick-up game of soccer in it, using traffic cones as the goalposts. Where they got the traffic cones, Billy chooses not to think about. 

The game gets broken up when Red’s silver truck shows up, the kids moving the cones so Red can park. They don’t wait long after to set back up, and Billy’s not surprised when Vasquez gets out of the truck and goes over to them, Faraday trailing. 

While Billy watches, Vasquez manages to convince them to give him the ball, and he kicks it through the goals. 

Red, on the other hand, doesn’t even look at them, heading towards the steps. 

When he gets up to Billy, he raises his eyebrows. 

“Goody’s nanny is here,” Billy explains, emphasizing his cigarette to explain why he’s out here. 

Red never needs much more than the bare minimum, unless he’s looking for a reason to fuck with someone, so he just sits by Billy and gets his own pack out. 

After awhile, the pair of them watching Vasquez show one of the teenagers how to headbutt the ball, Red asks, “Nanny?” Billy shrugs. “Didn’t know he was _that_ kind of rich.”

“My family had servants,” Billy admits, though he didn’t have a nanny, not like how Rebecca seems to have been for Goody. There had been several women in his childhood who had been tasked with keeping him cared for and mostly out of sight, but they had never seemed to hold any more affection for him than he did for them. 

He expects Red’s scoff. They live the same now, but he’s managed to put some pieces together about Red’s early life, and just how starkly different it was from Billy’s. He knows a bit more than he should about Red’s later life too, when Vasquez had gotten drunk in Billy’s apartment one night, a few years ago, after he’d been back home for a few weeks for some mysterious ‘family emergency’. That had been before Billy knew Red though, back when he was just Vasquez’s oft-talked about little brother. And it had been none of his business then. It certainly isn’t now either.

“You two move fast,” Red says, after a minute. “Moved him in, now you’re meeting his mommy. I’m not wearing a suit when you marry him.” 

“Why would I ask you to wear a suit?” Billy asks, exhaling smoke. Down below, Faraday and Vasquez have picked sides with the kids. Vasquez is a better player, but Faraday’s bulk is good for blocks, even if it is a pain in the ass when he’s drunk. 

“You got another choice for best man?” 

Billy knocks their shoulders together harder than necessary, and gets knocked back even harder. 

After Billy’s lit his second cigarette, Red says, “I like him.”

It’s not like Billy needed Red’s approval, but it’s still good to know. 

Vasquez and Faraday get bored with the game eventually, and head up to join them. Before they all go in, Billy warns them, not that he’s sure of how much good it’ll do. 

Inside, Goody is sitting with Rebecca on the sofa now, the pair of them speaking about something Billy doesn’t catch. In any case, once they’re all in, Goody is standing and holding a hand out to Rebecca to help her up. “Rebecca, these fine young men are Red Harvest North, Guillermo Vasquez, and Joshua Faraday. Boys, this is Ms. Rebecca Chisolm.” Goody starts to gesture towards them all. “That one there is -”

“Goodnight, I think I am capable of working out which one is which,” Rebecca cuts him off. Faraday snorts, but quiets when Rebecca looks at him. “Alright, I’m off. Can’t expect that woman to fend for herself through a whole lunch with her little coven, can I?” Goody shakes his head, ducking down for a kiss on the cheek when Rebecca tips her head back. “Walk me to my car, then.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

Faraday waits until they’re gone before he laughs. “Dude, Goody’s scared of his nanny,” while leaning back on Vasquez, Vasquez looping an arm around Faraday’s shoulders. 

“Don’t even, Josh, you were shaking,” Vasquez says, dragging Faraday into a headlock. 

She had been an intimidating woman, even Billy could admit that. But he hadn’t faulted her for it, couldn’t, not when he saw how openly she cared for Goody. That makes them allies, of a sort, if they’re not friends just yet.

Goody ends up registering for a few classes over the next week, all during the day, while Billy is usually sleeping. He likes that Goody has found something to do, something he seems to enjoy, but Billy finds himself disliking Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays in a selfish way. Goody leaves him around ten am on those days, and doesn’t come back until Billy is up for the day. He’d gotten used to having Goody in the bed with him, the simple company of it, and more pettily, the usually open invitation for sex. 

Still, Goody was happier with something to occupy his mind, and he slept better. And Billy ended up getting a crash course on plants and the history of theater, of all things, after the counselor at the school convinced Goody to sign up for courses on both. Apparently working with plants or animals was good for veterans. Billy figured she knew better than him, not that he had any interest in either, at least not at first. 

It was something about the way Goody could be so enthralled and enthusiastic about things when he talked to Billy about them, though, that kept him interested in subjects he otherwise wouldn’t care about.. 

“You ever go to any of this when you were a kid?” Goody asks, pointing to a photo in his textbook. “‘Korean pansori opera’?”

Billy nods. “ _Changgeuk_ ,” he says. “It was very boring.” Granted, Billy had probably been too young to appreciate it anyway, but even now, he’d probably find his previous opinion unchanged. Billy is a lot of things, but he doesn’t count _artistic_ as one of them. 

That said, he rather likes the Korean woodblock prints Goody had found at the thrift store. They don’t remind him much of his childhood home, his parents far too interested in appearing fashionable to the people they wanted to impress. But they do put him in mind of the restaurants and bars him and the men he’d served with had gotten drunk in. Those are good memories, even if they are a bit blurry. Besides, even if his parents had been interested, they certainly wouldn’t have had any woodblocks depicting a drunk noblewoman with an unsubtle double entendre transcribed as well. 

He’s more fond of the one with two men, and the joke about their exact relationship. After he’d explained it to Goody, Goody had made sure it was hanging in the center. 

“Internet bill coming up?” Goody asks, bringing Billy back to the moment, and reminding him of something.

He takes a hit off his joint, and offers it to Goody. While Goody exhales, making a smoke ring, Billy suggests, “Should think about putting your name on some of them.” 

“Why’s that then?” Goody sits back from the book, and settles against Billy, the pair of them adjusting until Goody is leaning back against Billy’s chest, Billy tapping a pattern against Goody’s sternum. “Want me to start paying my fair share?”

“You are,” Billy reassures him. “It just…” He doesn’t know how to say exactly what he’s thinking, so he mulls it over. Goody, as always, waits patiently. “Makes sense for you to have more of a say in things.” 

Goody hums, playing with Billy’s fingers. “Sounds like you’re trying to trap me, sweetheart,” he refutes. “Don’t need to be coy about it, though.” Billy flicks him carelessly, annoyed in a harmless kind of way at being referred to as _coy_. “I told you, _cher_ , you’ve got me as long as you want me around. ‘Sides, Rebecca likes you better than anyone else I ever took up with. Tells me I’m not completely crazy.”

There’s something a bit evasive in the phrasing, so Billy calls him out. “But she doesn’t actually like me.”

“I told you,” Goody replies, laughing. “That woman has known me since the day I was born. She’s the one who raised me, truth be told. Her and Sam.” He doesn’t say anything about his actual mother and father, but while Billy was never lucky enough to have anyone like Rebecca and Sam Chisolm in his own life, he understands the distance Goody seems to feel from his parents. “No one was ever going to be good enough for me. But Sam likes you.” He makes a thoughtful sound. “That might actually hurt you in the long run with Rebecca. She always likes to claim Sam would let me get away with murder.” 

He noses at Goody’s hair. “If it makes you feel better, my father would sooner have you...managed...before even thinking of meeting you.” 

“‘Managed’?” Goody asks, clearly understanding, and laughing. “Your father some kind of Korean mafia?”

“No.” He presses his mouth against the skin behind Goody’s ear. “But he owns quite a few bathhouses, bars. And he has some very loyal customers.” 

It’s not a lie, but it gets Goody laughing, eventually standing up and pulling Billy up too. “Think it’s about time you took me to bed, _cher_ ,” he says, looping his arms around Billy’s neck. 

“Great minds,” Billy replies, letting himself be led. 

The weeks go by, and the new routine becomes just that. Billy goes to work and practice and gigs; Goody goes to class, and sometimes hangs around during the practices, but sometimes he goes to the park, or goes to visit Sam or have coffee with Rebecca. Somehow or another, he even strikes up friendships with everyone else in the building, including Emma Cullen downstairs. 

There are still bad nights, bad days. But one night, it’s Billy instead of Goody who wakes up, his heart hammering in his chest. He knows he’s in Baton Rouge, he _knows_ , but his body is thrumming, expecting a fight, a threat.

He can’t be near Goody like this, so he gets out of the bed, and settles in the living room, sitting on the couch and smoking a cigarette. It doesn’t do shit for him, but it’s better than staying in the bedroom, where he could hurt Goody. 

When Goody comes into the living room, the clock on the cable box showing two-forty in the morning, he doesn’t listen when Billy tells him to go back to bed. And when he sits by Billy, Billy lets himself rest his head in Goody’s lap, lets Goody stroke his hair. He buries his face in Goody’s stomach, the old gray tee with _ARMY_ written across the chest in block letters soft and smelling like Goody. His soap, and the expensive laundry detergent and dryer sheets he insisted on buying. 

“It’s alright, _cher_ ,” Goody murmurs. “Got the deadbolt turned and everything. Ain’t nothing getting in here.” He breathes against Billy’s ear. “ _I came to you one rainless August night, you taught me how to live without the rain,_ ”

Just the sound of Goody’s voice, his gentle cadence, has Billy’s mind calming, the adrenaline bleeding out of him, while Goody strokes his hair. 

“ _You wrap your name tight around my ribs, and keep me warm. I was born for you. _”__

__If it was another night, Billy would scoff, maybe laugh, because Goody was a ridiculously sentimental American. But the line grabs at Billy, and he doesn’t really understand why._ _

__He’s spent his whole life adrift, really. Before Goody, he could have packed up and left Baton Rouge on a whim, and it would have been easy. He would have missed the band, but he’s used to missing people._ _

__Goody has changed everything. There are orchids in the apartment now, that need to be spritzed every few hours, Goody keeping a meticulous timetable. There are books everywhere, some old classics Billy had been forced through in school, and some by some woman named Ursula Le Guin, and a lot of poetry. There’s a terribly colorful rug in the living room, another surprise addition, like the dining table. Magnets on the fridge with colorful quotes, and a notepad listing things they’re out of._ _

__One day, Billy takes a shower and realizes the towels have been changed out for new ones._ _

__And he comes home to breakfast, still._ _

__Goody is distant though, one morning in October, staring out towards the sliding glass door._ _

__“What’s wrong?” Billy finally asks, after they’re in bed. It’s a Monday, so Goody doesn’t have class, and since Goody had done the shopping yesterday, neither of them have anywhere to be. Goody had rolled them both a joint when Billy had complained about a twinge in his shoulder, Goody’s own old injuries apparently bothering him too with the change in the weather._ _

__It takes a few hits for both of them before Goody says, “Rebecca came by, after you left yesterday.” He takes another hit, sighing. “My mother’s had some kind of memorial established on my father’s behalf. My daddy, he loved books. The classics, mostly. He liked this local place. They restore old books, archive them. She’s _bequeathed_ them some money. Quite a bit. So they’re going to have a ceremony, this Friday.” _ _

__He gets out of the bed, and cracks the blackout curtains, letting in the soft light of the overcast morning. “One of the rooms is going to be named for him. Rebecca says my mama gave them his collection. He had some first-editions, little bit of this, little bit of that. He had a letter Edgar Allan Poe wrote, even.” Goody sighs, the curtain dropping. “He wanted it gifted to some foundation in Baltimore after he died, but my mother didn’t like that.”_ _

__“Why Baltimore?” Billy asks._ _

__“It’s where Poe is from. They love him. Even named their football team The Ravens.” Billy doesn’t follow American football much, not unless the rest of the band was watching, but he knows the team Goody means._ _

__“An American football team with a clever name,” he remarks, his tone getting a grin out of Goody at last. “She shouldn’t give away your father’s things. Not without asking you.”_ _

__“Truth be told, I’d of done the same. Never felt right, keeping that sort of history locked up in his study. None of it ever felt right. See, some people, they have these uh...open house days? Let people in to look at the nice stuff, share it. But my mama, she’d rather burn it down.” He drops the curtain, and comes back to bed. “She never cared for the books. Didn’t like the study. This way she gets to put on a good face, and turn his study into a morning room, or something else just as useless.”_ _

__Billy thinks about his own parents. They had lived almost entirely separate lives, it had seemed. His mother had her shopping and her social life; he distinctly remembers one time, when he was around ten, seeing a picture of his mother in some magazine. The description had called her an icon of high society and fashion._ _

__The day he had left had been the first time he could ever recall seeing her without make-up. One of the maids had apparently told her that his father had ordered him to either fall in line or leave, and what his choice had been. She must have been having her breakfast, because she’d still been in her dressing gown._ _

__His mother had never been cruel. No, he’d known she loved him, as much as she could._ _

__“He doesn’t mean it,” she’d said, her arms crossed, until she’d come close enough to touch him, reaching up to cup his face. “He’s angry. He’ll regret it.”_ _

__Maybe he would. Maybe he did. But Billy had already known he couldn’t stay, and she’d let him go._ _

__He holds no love or longing for his childhood home, but he admits to missing certain aspects of it, like the courtyard. It had hosted an intricate fish pond, with a footbridge spanning it, along with stepping stones that had been more for the look of things than actual use. Billy had used them though, to get to the large rock functioning as an island, of sorts. He had spent hours sitting there as a child, watching the fish. It had been meditative, his way of calming himself down whenever something had upset him. Usually his father, but maybe he only thinks that because those memories are the strongest still._ _

__He hasn’t set foot in that courtyard in years, likely never will again, but if he was told that it been torn out and paved over for some reason, he’d still be upset._ _

__Here, in this apartment in Baton Rouge, with Goody in his arms, he offers, “We could go to it. This....party. If you want.” He feels Goody tip his head up to look at Billy. “So you can see them again. Your father’s books.”_ _

__“You wouldn’t mind? Be a whole lot of people with more money than sense in one room.” When Billy looks down at him, his eyebrows raised, Goody just says, “You are many things, darling, but you ain’t got a lot of patience for stupid.”_ _

__“Faraday is still alive,” Billy drawls, getting a snort out of Goody. “I still remember how to behave, if needed.” And if Goody needs him to behave, Billy can behave._ _

__“Thank you, sweetheart,” Goody says, the plan apparently settled._ _

__The day of though, Goody is clearly on edge. He manages to button his shirt up, after two or three tries, Billy deciding this is one of those times Goody needs to do it on his own. When he tries to knot his tie though, it clearly isn’t happening, so Billy takes over the task._ _

__“Is this necessary?” Billy asks, knotting it into place._ _

__“ _Cher_ , trust me. The less she has to pick at, the better off we’ll be.” _ _

__It’s not something worth saying out loud, not right now, but Billy thinks that won’t be much of a problem in the long run. If Goody’s mother upsets him, they’re leaving._ _

__They take a taxi, the shop they’re headed to on the wrong side of town for a bus. “Do you have a license?” Billy asks._ _

__“I do, still, but it’s probably about to expire. I haven’t driven in years. I, uh, I couldn’t manage it all that well when I first got back. Had a hard time concentrating, and the traffic here gets me little edgy.” He reaches over and entwines their fingers, Billy squeezing them._ _

__He knows what Goody means. He’d had the same problem, when he first tried. Sitting in traffic would inevitably set off the itch under his skin, that feeling of danger. He’s gotten better about it, since getting here. Red driving him around helps, in a strange way. The truck is the typical ostentatious nonsense Americans seem to favor, and Billy had scoffed at it when he first met Red, but Billy can admit when he’s wrong. The loud engine and the dark windows, combined with Red’s careful and familiar driving, gives Billy peace of mind._ _

__Still, it’s not going to do any of them much good in the long run to keep depending on Red. A car is starting to look like a sensible idea. He can probably pass an American driving test._ _

__The taxi stops on a street Billy’s never been on, but while the style of the buildings is different, he’s familiar with the feeling he gets when he steps on to it. It brings back memories of clothes he hated wearing, and only being allowed to speak when spoken to by the well-dressed adults around him._ _

__This is somehow even worse though, as they walk down the sidewalk, towards a shopfront with a twisted ironwork railing, and a double-set of doors with knockers shaped like lions roaring. When they’re admitted inside by a shopkeeper who seems to know Goody, Billy’s fears are confirmed; of the thirty or so people milling around inside, some even more formally dressed than Goody, Billy sees that only people who aren’t white are the ones walking around holding trays._ _

__He had somehow forgotten this aspect of an event like this. In Korea, he was just one more face amongst people with too much money. Here, he stands out easily. They’re hardly inside before he catches a pair of women glancing at him, and whispering to one another._ _

__“Is Rebecca here?” he thinks to ask. If she’s here, he won’t be completely alone._ _

__“Hm?” Goody looks distracted. “Oh, sorry, _cher_ , saw one of my cousins just now. We’re going to want to move along before he notices.” He grabs at Billy’s hand, and Billy allows himself to be lead into another room of the shop. It was once a house, if Billy had to guess, but as with so many buildings here in this city, it was converted when the neighborhood changed. “Her and Sam are both here. They might be divorced, but they still like to put up a united front when it comes to my mama.” _ _

__He shouldn’t have doubted Rebecca; she must have some kind of sense for Goody, because she appears beside them, along with Sam Chisolm. While Rebecca fusses over Goody, Sam mutters, “Glad to see you. Was starting to feel like an exhibit in a zoo,” to Billy._ _

__“How does she put up with this?” There’s more than one person openly watching Goody, now with Rebecca on his arm, the pair of them making a round about the room._ _

__Sam shrugs. “Same reason I can, I guess. His mother and her world are one thing, but Goody is another. That boy…” Billy looks up at him. “I used to take him shooting. That boy was a damn protege even back before he was double-digits in age. Now, don’t get me wrong, his daddy was no saint, but his mother…” He puts a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “You’re going to meet her today. And Goody will stick up for you, but a word of advice? If it gets bad, just take Goody and leave.”_ _

__“Let me guess,” Billy replies. “‘Oriental’?”_ _

__“You’re assuming she’ll think you even speak English,” Sam says dryly. “How you two been? Goody says you’re in a band?”_ _

__Billy nods. “Drums, usually. Guitar, when the idiots won’t shut up.”_ _

__“Play the guitar myself, actually.” When Billy raises his eyebrows, looking Sam up and down, he laughs and says, “Let you in on a little secret: Rebecca is better than me. Her parents were both musicians. Her mama played the piano in a jazz band with my mama. How we met, actually.” It honestly shocks Billy into silence, trying to reconcile the stern woman on Goody’s arm with _jazz_. “She’s the one who taught Goody how to play piano.”_ _

__He’d heard Goody play not long after they met, after Goody had asked about the instruments in the apartment. One of the bars the neighborhood bars had an old stand-up piano, and Goody had played through a few classical pieces easily enough, but he hadn’t explained any further. Billy had just assumed Goody knew music for the same reason Billy did; that is, their parents looking for every opportunity to show off their children._ _

__“That damn coven of hers is here,” Rebecca interrupts, her and Goody rejoining the pair of them. Sam makes a face, but Billy’s in the dark. Goody doesn’t meet his eyes, and he knows why when Rebecca explains, “Daughters of the Confederacy. Goody’s mother is a member.”_ _

__Billy honestly catches himself staring at Goody, but Goody shakes his head. “Ain’t exactly something I’m proud to share about her.” When he hooks a finger in Billy’s belt loop, tugging him a little closer, Billy still comes, even if he is a bit thrown off. It just doesn’t fit with how he’s known Goody so far. “Sorry, _cher_ , I should have warned you.”_ _

__“You could just pretend you don’t speak English,” Sam suggests dryly, earning him a sharp look from Rebecca. “Don’t make that face at me, woman, we’re divorced. Ain’t nothing you can do to me anymore.”_ _

__“Funny you should say that,” she replies. “Because the chaplain from your precinct came around to my prayer circle asking for volunteers for counseling. I didn’t think I had the time, but you know, charity is the Lord’s work, don’t you think?”_ _

__Goody huffs, his breath hot over Billy’s shoulder. “Lord, Jesus....” he whispers, and Billy nudges him, trying not to smile._ _

__“Rebecca, you about gave poor Teddy Q a panic attack. You even had Hernandez scared, and I’ve seen her make gang members cry -”_ _

__“They brought that on themselves. The nerve of that young man, trying to tell me I had no right to your time. And then he went and got that bossy little girl to try and -”_ _

__“So what you’re saying is that you verbally assaulted two of my officers after they attempted to inform you that my precinct isn’t run by you?”_ _

__Even Billy knows by now to expect the finger Sam gets in his face. “Don’t you start with me, Sam Chisolm, not about this, and not here. I mean it.” She doesn’t so much as raise her voice, but the finalty in her tone comes across loud and clear._ _

__Low enough only Goody can hear, Billy dryly asks, “Are you trying to hide behind me?”_ _

__“Just enjoying your company, darling.”_ _

__“Sure you are,” Billy humors him, unable to resist cracking a smile when Goody pinches him. “Who’s that?” He hitches his chin when Goody looks up, towards a woman standing with a few others, looking over her champagne glass at them with an undisguised sneer. She’s dressed like how all the older wealthy women in this city dress; sensible, but expensive dress and heels, dark hair sleek, and understated jewelry._ _

__For some reason, she brings to mind his own mother. Every now and then, one of his young cousins will excitedly show him a picture of her on some Korean fashion site. She’s still lauded as a style icon, only now for women her own age. He thinks of how she would look down on these women, and their boring clothes._ _

__But Goody isn’t laughing. Neither are Rebecca and Sam._ _

__“That’s my mother,” Goody explains, and now Billy understands the way she’s looking at them. “ _Cher_ , if she says anything to you -”_ _

__“It won’t be anything I haven’t heard before,” Billy says._ _

__“That don’t mean she’s got the right to say it,” Goody replies._ _

__An employee of the shop enters the room at that point, someone higher up the ladder, to judge from his age and his suit. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would all know join us in the next room, to give you a first look at our newest acquisitions, a generous donation from the private collection of Mr. James Robicheaux, made in his name by his wife, the lovely Mrs. Robicheaux.” Here he gestures at Goody’s mother, and around them, people raise their glasses to her. For her part, she smiles and demurs._ _

__But Billy thinks of that courtyard, and watching the fish swim. Of the water being drained, the plants ripped out, and the rocks smashed._ _

__He slides his arm around Goody’s waist, stroking his side, and he feels how tense Goody is. Leaning over, he sings into Goody’s ear, “ _Don’t look at me that way and breathe a sigh,_ ” and Goody relaxes. _ _

__“I do not believe you’re playing fair, darling,” Goody says. “But I cannot say I mind much.”_ _

__The next room has been set up to draw focus to what Billy assumes are the donations in question, set up around the room in various displays. The employee, a curator it seems, introduces each one with fanfare, far more genuine than the interest most in the room are politely showing._ _

__No, Billy knows these kind of parties; they’re about appearing cultured, and nothing more._ _

__Goody is interested though, and when the curator finishes, he leads Billy over to one of the smaller displays. “Here it is,” he says, nodding down at what looks to be a letter, enshrined in a protective case, even under the glass. “He was a troubled man, Poe. Everything I ever read about him, seems just when he had found some small bit of happiness, the world ripped it away from him.”_ _

__“ _Annabel Lee _,” Billy says, the only work Billy knows from the man in question besides the one about the raven. “His great lost love.”___ _

____“His only love,” Goody says, still looking at the letter. Billy won’t pretend he can read the penmanship it’s written in; his ability to read in English is restricted to plain print. “Funny thing about Poe, a man who hated him somehow inherited the legal rights to his reputation after he died. Tried to destroy the man’s legacy. Even after he was dead, he couldn’t seem to find any kindness from the world.”_ _ _ _

____Even Billy finds that sad. “What’s the letter about?”_ _ _ _

____“He was writing to a friend about a short story he was working on. Best guess is that he was talking about _The Tell-tale Heart_. Story from a caretaker’s perspective about murdering their elderly ward, and burying them beneath the floorboards. Drives themselves crazy from guilt, thinking they can hear the heart beating still. A lot of people always assume the caretaker is a man, but really, they were likely a woman. Suppose it never even occurred to people then that a woman could do something so horrific. Reckon they never served with any.”_ _ _ _

____“Or met your nanny.” Billy has no trouble picturing Rebecca killing Goody’s mother. He doubts she’d lose sleep over it though._ _ _ _

____Billy smells perfume at the same time he feels a presence behind them. He doesn’t bother to look, some petty pride refusing to give her the satisfaction._ _ _ _

____“James,” she says, and beside him, Goody turns._ _ _ _

____“Yes, ma’am?” Goody asks._ _ _ _

____“I wasn’t expecting you to attend this,” she says, and now Billy turns. “Much less with company.”_ _ _ _

____It’s her tone, combined with the way she looks Billy over, that has him briefly regretting cutting ties with his family. For only a moment, he fantasizes about this woman having to meet his father in a setting like this, a man wealthy enough to buy everything in this store, including the building itself, without so much as a second thought._ _ _ _

____But it’s only a moment, and he doesn’t need his father’s money to deal with this woman._ _ _ _

____“This is Billy,” Goody introduces. “Billy, this is my mother, Celeste Robicheaux.”_ _ _ _

____Billy doesn’t bother to offer his hand. He nods at her instead, and says, “Goody wanted me to see his father’s collection. It’s very impressive.” He’s not entirely sure it is, but since the curator still seems to be genuinely excited, having now cornered Rebecca, Sam, and two strangers by another exhibited book, he can draw conclusions. “Goody was explaining the importance of this letter to me.”_ _ _ _

____“Your father always did have a strange fascination with that drunk,” she says, to Goody instead of Billy. “Getting it and the rest of that nonsense out of the house has lifted a spell off it, I swear. I can finally go into that study without feeling like I’ve walked into a wake.” She’s twisting the necklace she’s wearing as she speaks, the chain catching on her nails. “I’ve done you the favor of telling our friends that you’ve been taking some time for your art, to save you the embarrassment of this latest little temper tantrum. You always did enjoy your sketching.”_ _ _ _

____“Been picking it back up, as a matter of fact,” Goody says. The art supplies had appeared in the apartment awhile back, and if Goody didn’t have a book while Billy was practicing, he had a sketchpad in hand. He’d drawn the coffee table so many times, with so many different arrangements of objects, Billy had given up on using the thing altogether, moving the ashtray to one of the side tables. “Taking some classes as well.”_ _ _ _

____Her expression somehow goes colder. “Where?”_ _ _ _

____“Local community college,” Goody explains, but doesn’t go any further. It’s so unlike him that it unsettles Billy. Goody loves to talk, and usually has a paragraph opposed to Billy’s one word explanations at the drop of a hat. WIth this woman though, everything that makes Goody who he is is gone._ _ _ _

____She looks around them and steps closer. “James Robicheaux, I am beyond tired of these little acts of rebelliousness. It’s not enough you cannot seem to grasp how embarrassing your constant refusal to even begin to pretend to respect basic good manners is, but you insist on making my life more difficult by _snubbing_ them.” Her eyes turn on Billy, and she asks, “Do you mind? I am trying to have a private conversation with my son. I know your people -”_ _ _ _

____Before she or Billy can say one word, and Billy has a few, Goody says, “You have a whole lot to say about my manners, but you seem to have forgotten yours, and in public, no less.” And now he finally sounds like himself again, like _Goody_. “If I’ve already put you through as much trouble as you like to claim, I wouldn’t think the best plan would be for you to make a scene here. Wouldn’t you agree?” _ _ _ _

____His hand finds Billy’s, and Billy interlocks their fingers. When Goody turns away from the woman, heading towards Rebecca and Sam, Billy lets himself be led. He meets her eyes though, holds them, until he has to turn away, following Goody._ _ _ _

____But she has a parting shot: “James Robicheaux, if you walk away from me -”_ _ _ _

____Goody stops, but only for a moment before he keeps on._ _ _ _

____When they reach Rebecca, Sam and the curator, Goody puts on a good face, but Billy places a hand on the small of his back. He feels the eyes in the room on them, and he knows Goody must too, but he doesn’t step away from Billy._ _ _ _

____They get a ride home with Sam and Rebecca, Goody dozing against Billy the whole way. When they get there, neither of them say much, falling into their own activities after they’ve changed. The silence is easy, the kind borne of not having to say anything, rather than not knowing what to say._ _ _ _

____It isn’t until they’re getting ready for bed that Billy finally brings it up, after he’s lying down, arm under his head. “You didn’t have to do that.” He doubts Goody will really be all that put out over whatever his mother had been threatening Goody with, but Billy still feels odd over maybe being the proverbial straw. “I told you, I’m used to it.”_ _ _ _

____Goody pulls on the Army PT shirt he sleeps in, and gets into bed, sitting against the headboard. “Thing is, I had to spend eighteen years listening to her speak to people like that. Hearing her speak to Rebecca and Sam like that, and worse when they weren’t around. But Rebecca was always telling me I couldn’t let it get to me, that if I said anything, it would only come back on her.”_ _ _ _

____“She was probably right,” Billy says. He knows Goody’s mother’s type. He’s met plenty of versions of her over the years. “If she thought you were more loyal to Rebecca than her, she would have fired her.”_ _ _ _

____“I don’t think I’d of made it to eighteen in that house without her and Sam. When the Army recruiter came to school though, I couldn’t sign up fast enough. Anything to get out of that house.”_ _ _ _

____Billy reaches up, rubbing Goody’s thigh. “In South Korea, when you turn eighteen, you’re required to serve two years. People from the kind of family I’m from, they usually get good placements. Deskwork. They hardly change their lives at all. And when their two years are done, they can say they did their part for the safety and defense of South Korea and the honor of their family.”_ _ _ _

____“If you think I’m going to believe you did deskwork a day in your life, _cher_...”_ _ _ _

____While Billy knows that Goody knows, on some level, just what Billy had been, he still has to take a minute to say, “I volunteered. My parents had me in me in martial arts my whole life. And my father enjoyed hosting shootings for his foreign business partners. I was already over-qualified, compared to my peers.” He tugs on Goody’s shirt, for no other reason than just to do so. “I volunteered before my enlistment came up. I just...I wanted a life.”_ _ _ _

____He’d wanted something _real_. Billy had wanted to be worked and forced to a standard, he’d wanted _rules_ and _expectations_._ _ _ _

____“Yeah, _cher_ , I get that,” Goody says, in the here and now._ _ _ _

____“I know,” Billy tells him. Because he knows. He’s known Goody from that first night._ _ _ _

____He doesn’t usually need to ask Goody to read out loud to him. But this night, the windows open to let in the now-mild air, Billy asks, running his hand up Goody’s arm, “What was the one from that night?”_ _ _ _

____“What night would that be, darling?” Goody asks, not looking up from the book he’s grabbed off the nightstand._ _ _ _

____“‘You wrap your name around my ribs’,” Billy quotes._ _ _ _

____Now Goody looks. He sets the book aside on the night table, and grabs at Billy’s hand, raising it to press against Goody’s ribs. “‘You wrap your name _tight_ around my ribs’,” he corrects. “ _To the Desert_. You liked that one, then?” Billy doesn’t break his gaze, and neither does Goody. “ _I came to you one rainless August night_.” He straddles Billy’s waist, Billy stroking Goody’s thighs when he does. “Of all the bars I could have walked into…”_ _ _ _

____“Wasn’t my bar,” Billy says._ _ _ _

____“And you weren’t the fucking bartender,” Goody replies smartly. “Just lucky that night.”_ _ _ _

____“So was I,” Billy jokes, but Goody’s face doesn’t change, and really, Billy knows what he means. Maybe more than Goody understands. “Come here,” he says, and Goody leans down, bracing himself on his elbows so they can kiss. “Stay,” he adds._ _ _ _

____“Afraid you’re stuck with me, _cher_ ,” Goody says, humming some tune under his breath. “You mind?”_ _ _ _

____Billy shakes his head. “Wherever you go, I go, Goody.”_ _ _ _

____“Good thing I’m not going anywhere,” Goody says._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

>  __  
> I came to you one rainless August night.  
>  You taught me how to live without the rain.  
> You are thirst and thirst is all I know.  
> You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,  
> The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand  
> Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend  
> Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.  
> You wrap your name tight around my ribs  
> And keep me warm. I was born for you.  
> Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.  
> I wake to you at dawn. Never break your  
> Knot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,  
> Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,  
> I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.
> 
>  
> 
> \- "To The Desert" by Benjamin Alire Sáenz


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